


This Is Not A Drive-By

by karmascars



Series: the Open Road 'verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean and Cas have a threesome, F/M, M/M, Multi, Violence, all the porn is at the end, evil!Sam, the OFC is actually pretty cool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-12 16:37:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Don't read this; I'm in the process of re-writing it.</b> Second installment in my Open Road 'verse, the sequel to Learning to Drive. AU. Dean can barely remember, Castiel can't forget -- and Sam has far surpassed them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: **IF YOU HAVEN'T READ LEARNING TO DRIVE, go read it now.** This story, right here, is the sequel. Don't worry; LtD is rather short. You'll back here before you know it. Go on!
> 
> This story is COMPLETE. I will be posting new chapters as they leave beta. This story contains angst and intense boy-on-boy action. There's also some hot girl-on-boy action. (Don't hate Kendra, she's a means to an end.) Also, beware the angel whumping. And the absolutely evil!Sam.
> 
> Once again, thanks to my lovely beta-licious, Mistress Whimsy!

_Oh but that one night_  
 _Is still the highlight_  
 _I didn't need you until I came to_  
 _and I was overwhelmed_  
 _and frankly scared as hell_  
 _Because I really fell for you_

_Oh, I swear to you_  
 _I'll be there for you_  
 _This is not a drive-by_

"Drive-By" by Train

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

* * *

Somehow, Dean managed to get all the blood off the seats. And the windows, doors, dash, carpet... It was grueling work, especially without the benefit of angel mojo - but he needed something to do with his hands.

The Impala was currently basking in the shade of an ancient, sprawling tree, on the edge of a motel lot. Not the same motel, not even close.

The hunt hadn't ended that day. At least a week of skirmishes and elusive leads had gone by before they were able to confront and defeat the demon who'd organized that warehouse fiasco. Dean had forced himself to stop caring, for the time being, about the state of his beloved baby. Especially when, after the final battle, Castiel, Dean, and Sam piled into the car - all three of them now preferring the open road to angel-zaps - smearing new blood atop the old, which was by then completely caked and seeped into the Impala's pores.

Having no desire to do much else, they drove until they found a nice spot, an affordable motel in a quiet town, with only three or four low-level demons on a nearby farm to dispatch. They made short work of them, and set about enjoying what counted as summer vacation. Dean had begun to tackle the immense task of cleaning the Impala almost immediately, grateful for the temperate weather. He blasted jock-rock from the speakers and scrubbed, coaxing blood from the leather, trying not to wonder what their angel was up to.

Castiel hung around for a day or so after they arrived, having stayed with the Winchesters as they followed Bobby's leads and fought on through to the end - if he wasn't an angel of the Lord, one might have thought Castiel wanted revenge on the bastard for branding him. But then Heaven called him home, and the brothers hadn't seen him since. Sam said something about "got some 'splainin to do" and Dean couldn't even muster a halfhearted chuckle. He wasn't quite sure why.

Maybe because Sam couldn't, wouldn't, stop using his powers. They were handy - but they were killing him. Dean could see it happening. He hadn't watched the demons on the farm when they died slowly, wrung from their vessels screaming - he'd only had eyes for Sammy as his brother's face paled and blood ran from his nose, as that clenching hand he always had to hold out in front of him started shaking. That was the subject of many furious arguments these days, the most recent ones ending with Sam stalking out and staying out for hours, sometimes days at a time. Dean had no idea where his brother went, out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, and Sammy never said.

So Dean just cleaned and tuned and re-tooled his baby, so he had something to do with his hands.

Even if he could force himself not to think of Sam, though, he couldn't keep his mind from wandering elsewhere. As he crouched on cracked asphalt, using an old toothbrush on the Impala's now barely-stained door frame, he dwelt on what flashes of memory he retained from that day.

The day the angel drove.

Mostly, it was a blur of varying shades and long streaks of black. If he focused on the shaky memories, Dean could hear himself saying things - and he always got the feel of urgency, of _I can't leave this unfinished_. It made his stomach roll to remember what it felt like, dying, with blood bubbling against his teeth with every word.

As he dipped the toothbrush back into his bucket of cleaner he could see, clear as a field under a full moon, the terrified look on Castiel's face when Dean told him he'd have to drive.

The angel'd been mortal, then - subject to all the whims and gimmicks a human body could throw at a soul. Dean remembered the way Castiel's pupils retracted to pinpoints, the way his knuckles whitened when he gripped the wheel for the first time.

Then, after a long stretch of black, interspersed with the thickness of that copper in his mouth and ghost hurt in his gut - he remembered the way Castiel looked when he began to love what he was doing, when he fell into the rhythm of the drive. Fierce, almost radiant. Dean had looked at him then, through eyes lidded with pain, and seen his own salvation.

When he looked back now, he wasn't sure what he saw.

The word _angel_ had a really fluid definition.

Finally satisfied with his cleaning, Dean shoved the bucket away, ducked into the passenger seat, and shut the door decisively. In the stillness following the slam, heated breezes dancing through the open windows, he slid down on the leather until his gaze leveled on the dash. He didn't quite focus there, even as his eyes flickered across the surface, still seeking now-nonexistent specks of blood. His blood.

For a few days after that wild ride, Dean would sometimes catch Castiel staring at him like he was some kind of miracle.

"I'm no miracle," he groused aloud, his voice echoing oddly in the empty car, too loud even against the wind shifting the treetop above him. "I don't even really believe in miracles..."

Dean let his head loll back, and fell asleep with breezes kissing his skin. He dreamed, but when he woke to fading light, he couldn't remember any of it.

  


~#~#~

  


Castiel wouldn't admit it, not even to himself, but he was addicted.

Curse his eidetic memory. While he wandered the eternal gardens, he could refocus on any given point of that terrifying, glorious drive - usually the parts when the symphony was so profound that even now, fully re-immersed in the Host, he felt he could weep from it - and he reveled in those memories over and over again.

The sore muscles of his wings twitched, and he stretched them out with a low groan. Too long cooped within his vessel, coiled up and repressed. Castiel sighed. He really should get in some air time, while he was here.

He didn't even enjoy flight anymore, not really. That should have tipped him off. Angelic flight was one of the most rapturous experiences ever created. Castiel had been born to that, though, and so in his mind it could not compare to the raw, bursting energy he felt behind the wheel. Something so carnal and base, it sounded like the descriptions he'd heard of human copulation when he put it in to words. That, too, should have bothered him, but Castiel had always been so clinical in his observations. He'd never had cause to think in such human terms as obsession, addiction, compulsion. Angels were compelled by obedience - to their superiors, to God - never by something as base as desire.

Castiel was becoming something new, and he didn't even know it.

He sighed, glaring at a rhododendron, flexing his wings. His time in Heaven was fast becoming unbearable, but not because of his memories. Time after time he was summoned to one office, then another, being ordered to explain himself, explain the Winchesters. He answered honestly, completely, but they were not satisfied - and after the fifteenth go 'round Castiel began to wonder what exactly it was that they were after.

Unfortunately, when they weren't interrogating him, Castiel had nothing to do but think. And remember. He couldn't leave Heaven - and it never occurred to him that it might be odd for him to _want_ to leave - so he drifted aimlessly, barely glancing at the splendor of gardens and pure white architecture, for the most part utterly focused on the thrill sealed in his memory. _Lightning sizzling down his spine. Knuckles locked and splitting, jaw clenched, eyes dry._ He remembered the power of the Impala, her speed and grace, and it did things to him that he assumed could only happen to humankind.

Castiel never would have thought that a member of the heavenly Host could suddenly find himself aroused.

Not that there were any outward signs. This was Heaven, after all. His vessel was immaterial here - this dull ache of desire throbbed from within his very grace, and that somehow made it worse. There was no escape, no way to seek relief. He'd never experienced something so insufferable.

It occurred to him that he might be able to ask Dean about it, but then he was called into yet another interminable session and by the time it ended the idea had flown his mind.

He had a flawless memory, but distraction would always be the death of inspiration.

Castiel wandered another flowering park in perpetual spring, reveling in the ever-fresh memories and not quite wondering what it was he'd meant to do.

  


~#~#~

  


Later that evening, when hours had passed and Sam still wasn't back, Dean locked the room with a shrug and wandered down to the local bar.

At night, it was lit up like a Christmas tree and looked much more impressive than it had when they drove up a few days ago. Dean had fully intended to visit that bar their first night in town, but they had several bottles of Jack in the trunk and Sammy, good ol' "know your limit" Sammy insisted they watch Raiders of the Lost Ark on his laptop and play a tropes drinking game he'd found online.

They were both still drunk the next day, a commendable feat for Dean.

After it wore off, though, the fights started back up again. Dean shook his head, mourning the temporary reprieve, and let his boots scuff in the dust. The roadside sported an impressive collection of weeds, so he walked the edge, watching how the ground reflected the encroaching neon lights.

The door to the bar stuck slightly, and he almost stumbled in, boots clomping on the worn wooden floor. The place had a warm, welcoming atmosphere, with Zepp playing on the jukebox in the corner and a pleasantly stifling cloud of smoke lingering near the ceiling. There was barbeque in the air, and sweat, and as he noted the pool tables with a practiced eye Dean noticed (with no small amount of satisfaction) that several pairs of eyes were tracking his movement across the floor. He strode straight to the bar, flashed the lissome bartender his trademark grin - not quite a smile, not quite a leer - and ordered a series of tequila shots.

Half an hour later he was comfortably buzzed, licking vestiges of salt from his lips and not really watching the Patriots game above the bar.

He was downing a double whiskey - having decided to switch poisons so he didn't end up on the floor - as the door snap-caught open, and he didn't see who entered. There was a ragged chorus of "hey girl"s and the bartender's lips pursed up in a sensual smirk. "Heya, Liv," came a voice from behind him, and Liv the bartender simply quirked an eyebrow. Now incredibly curious, Dean turned on his stool just as a girl slid to the bar beside him.

Her hair was shoulder-length, auburn, full and silky. Her eyes when she glanced his way were the color of a tropical sea, deep cerulean with a hint of green, and the appraising look she gave him held promise.

She flashed him incredibly white teeth between two perfect lips. "I'm Kendra," she said, and the timbre of her voice stroked his spine. Turning on the charm, he let his eyes darken. "Dean," he replied, and he was pleased to hear just the right pitch to his own voice.

"I'll have what you're having." There was a laugh and something else in her tone. Dean felt his grin go a little feral as he waved Liv over. "Doubles," he said, his eyes not leaving Kendra's, "and keep 'em comin'."

They made love in the cool nest of her feather bed, sloppy with drink but lit by each other like live wires. Kendra was vocal, plenty confident, and had stamina to rival his own - they went through five positions before slamming in to one another as Dean took her from behind. He bit her shoulder as he came, and her answering orgasm rippled through her, crashed into him like a wave. They collapsed, spent, but after a moment or two of just breathing he turned his head to nip lightly at her lips, and this time they rolled to the floor.

By the time he stumbled back to the motel, dawn was breaking, and as Dean collapsed on his twin bed by the door he saw a familiar tousled head on the other bed's pillow.

His brother's soft snores lulled him to sleep.

  


~#~#~

  


There were times when Castiel wished he could just separate from his mind and not think, not remember, just _be_ for awhile.

Anything that ran through his head lately just felt like sin.

Apparently, Heaven agreed, because he'd been forbidden - implicitly - from contacting the Winchesters until such time as their importance and potential threat could be assessed.

It sent an awkward, shadowed jolt through Castiel's gut if he dwelt too long on the implications of that particular edict.

Another jolt came any time he realized he was considering _disobeying Heaven_.

At first he was convincing himself that he just wanted to see the car. That seeing her, touching her, even sitting in one of her seats would be enough, would stem this rising tide within him so that he could carry on being a good little solider. When that fantasy was no longer adequate, he imagined that driving again would fix it, that if he could just floor the gas on an empty road and scream down the asphalt for miles and miles, he would feel right again.

But he was an angel, and in the presence of the Host he was thoroughly couched in the wisdom of millennia. He couldn't fool himself.

Castiel didn't miss the car, or driving, or even the Winchesters. He missed _feeling_ , all the sensations coupled with being flawed.

He wanted another taste of being human.

That revelation, when it came, shocked him to his core. He was in a section of the everlasting garden that produced large, sprawling trees. He'd stopped walking, stared at nothing as his feet sank into the grass. _I don't want to fall_ , he thought, stricken. _I love my Father, and I am completed by my brothers and sisters. I am a soldier of the Lord._

 _I just..._ His eyes slowly widened. _I don't_ know _what I want._

With that thought, green eyes flashed through his mind, and if he'd been breathing he would have found it suddenly difficult.

Confusion swept through in the space where his thoughts should be. _That doesn't make any sense_ , he thought rather frantically. "That doesn't make any sense," he growled, as though speaking aloud would help untangle the mess he'd suddenly found himself in.

All of it was synonymous, but he had yet to figure that out.

  


~#~#~

  


"I like to change, every so often," Kendra said, by way of explanation.

She and Dean were curled up on her overstuffed sofa, still wafting through their latest afterglow, her hands lazily toying with his hair as he flipped through one of her photo books. The pictures were all of her - in places, with people - and she looked different in every single one of them.

"I like this one," Dean said, nudging the page. Soft brown eyes stared from beneath wheaten bangs. Her face had more flesh to it, too, but it was cute. Beside him Kendra wrinkled her nose. "That look's got memories attached. Sorry, kid - the world won't see that one again."

"How about -" he flipped back to an earlier favorite "- this one?" Electric blue hair with pink roots, and violet-gray eyes. "How many color contacts do you own, anyway?"

She giggled. "All colors." She studied the image for a moment. "I remember that phase... it was all raves and X and living in the moment, under a heady cloud of bass drops and nameless boys." A short huff. "Yeah, those were the days." Her tone was heavy, sardonic.

Dean closed the book and shifted her, lifting her bodily to sprawl on his lap. "How about we make this look -" his hand toyed with her hair "- the one with _good_ memories?"

She was entirely too serious, aquatic eyes wide in a solemn face. "Sounds like a plan."

Then she smiled capriciously, and he kissed that smile.

  


~#~#~

  


"The order is simple, Castiel. You must destroy Sam Winchester."

Nothing showed on his face. He didn't question it. One did not question Heaven.

They'd put a stop to his walks in the garden. Someone had seen him reeling with realization, seen the look on his face, and the next office he'd been called into had contained a reset.

He no longer questioned his existence. He no longer had any desires, untoward or otherwise. He barely thought about that frantic drive - those memories were no longer appealing.

Expressionless, Castiel accepted his orders and flew, appearing outside the country town where he'd left the brothers weeks ago. To him, ranging the gardens of Heaven, it had been at least a year - if he'd any concept of the passage of time.

None of it mattered. He had his orders.


	2. Chapter 2

"So, Bobby's got a job for us," Sam said preemptively. It was the first thing he'd said in days that wasn't either angry, or a one-word answer.

Dean turned to stare at his brother. It was a _I've finally got a good thing going here, despite your shit, and now after everything you've said to me you just decide we're a team again?_ kind of stare, but Sam met it levelly. "If I'm going to get stronger, we can't just sit on our asses."

"I don't want you to get stronger," Dean heard himself saying. "I want you to stop."

"I was given these powers for a reason, Dean," Sam said evenly. "It wouldn't make sense not to use them."

“It does make sense -- Sammy, you bleed when you use them. That's like saying you're going to keep eating burritos that make you crap out your organs, just because they taste good.” Dean had caught a South Park marathon the other night, and thought that was a pretty accurate parallel.

Sam quirked an eyebrow. “It's not like that at all.”

“Sam.” Dean pursed his lips. “You could be killing yourself.”

“I've got it under control, Dean,” Sam said in that flat, _this-discussion-is-over tone_. “Do you want to go gank this thing or not?”

“What is it?”

“Bobby thinks it might be a tulpa.”

“ _Where_ is it?”

Sam grinned. “Florida.” When Dean failed to react, Sam waved his hands around. “Come on, Dean -- beaches, bikinis! Tropical paradise, dude.”

Dean forced a smile for his brother's sake. “You know me too well.”

Sam opened his mouth, probably to say something lewd about Dean's sex life, but all the light bulbs blew out simultaneously and there was Castiel, standing between them, the blankness in his eyes disturbing beyond belief. He regarded them both in turn, and Dean finally said something. “Hey, Cas... where ya been?”

“I have been sent to aid you in your tasks,” Castiel replied, his voice as dead as his gaze. 

“The... tulpa?” Sam said hesitantly, and gulped when the angel regarded him. 

“That and others,” was his answer. 

Sam and Dean exchanged glances, their argument temporarily forgotten. Castiel was acting like he had when they first met him. Like...

“Cas,” Dean asked softly, “what did they do to you up there?”

Castiel's head canted to the side, and it was such a robotic imitation of the way he'd done it in recent months that it hurt to see. “I don't know what you mean,” he said.

Dean gave up -- for the moment. “Right, well, that beastie won't disbelieve itself. Let's get a move on -- I feel like sex on the beach.”

Sam snorted. “Lead the way.” 

  


~#~#~

  


It wasn't a tulpa, it was a poltergeist, which made it simultaneously easier and more difficult to handle. The salt-and-burn regime would work, of course, but they had to be able to complete it.

Not that he would admit it, but Dean felt a little twinge of fear the fourth time his lighter was forcibly pulled from his hand. There was still salt on the bones, but not as much as he'd poured -- it kept getting blown away and soaked into the mud by the freak rain storm (which Sam went so far as to insist was normal weather for Florida). His little brother was lying unconscious eight feet away, tangled in barbed wire, and Castiel was nowhere to be found. 

In fact, Dean couldn't remember having seen the angel since they hit A1A earlier that afternoon. He'd quipped something about angels and tropical paradise, glossing over his fear that Castiel was just readying an ambush or something.

After researching the creature (with the help of some cheap suits and fake I.D.s) and discovering Bobby's oversight, the brothers had proceeded to celebrate their arrival in Palm Coast with a bar crawl, convinced they could handle the job in an hour or so.

Now, as he struggled with the preternatural strength of a tourist child who'd drowned in the '80s, Dean wished he'd cared a little more about the job and a little less about getting laid. Just a little.

But seriously -- back-to-school body shots with incredibly sexy co-eds. How could he have said no to that?

Lightning crashed. Dean's foot stuck, slipped in the deepening mud and he fell to his knees. The spirit shrieked in triumph, its face a ruinous mask, and swooped in to incapacitate him permanently. Dean refused to flinch, but his body did it anyway.

From nowhere a gout of flame descended, eating away at the bones, using all the oxygen in the grave. There wasn't even enough time for the spirit to properly burn in midair before it disappeared. Dean, suddenly unable to breathe, fell forward on to his hands. He was hot... burning up, and the mud looked comfortable even as it began to boil.

“Dean!” Sam's yell was so far away.

Then a strong hand clamped onto his arm and dragged him forcibly into sweet, breathable air.

Castiel laid Dean on his back on the grass and the hunter tasted the rain, smiling and just a little delirious. Steam rose from his clothes. “Dean!” Sam lurched to his side, touching his shoulder then jerking away with a hiss. “You're burning up, there's --- blisters, what the fuck happened?”

“Little shit made it hurricane,” Dean grumbled, but even he could hear that the words he actually said weren't words at all. He was losing consciousness. 

_God, this is lame_.

He thought he saw a smile quirk on the angel's lips as he thought that, but angels couldn't read minds, right, and it was probably just a trick of the lightning...

Darkness claimed him, and the scent of sodden earth.

  


~#~#~

  


It was dangerous, this _remembering_.

Castiel had gone with the boys to Florida, intent on getting Sam alone and finishing his task without the the unnecessary risk of Dean seeing it happen, knowing it was him, going on an angel-killing rampage, and winding up as Heaven's next target.

However, something about riding in the Impala's back seat again... as they shot along a sunny highway with the windows down, Castiel felt something stir in his chest, and a flood of streaming images struck through his mind. He remembered, then, being behind the wheel of that car, the slip-sliding scenery, the visceral, physical thrill of the drive. 

How it _felt_.

Castiel was something entirely new, and he still didn't know it. It never occurred to him that no angel in all the Host had ever found a reason to cast aside their brotherhood and become an individual. Even the Devil, when he fell, did it out of love for their Father. 

He did know, though, that it was somewhat strange, him being able to shake off the effects of a reset. To recall his previous actions in a positive light. To _desire something_.

His longing to feel that rhythm again, to fall into the harmonies of driving, was so intensely bothersome that Castiel simply left without saying anything to the brothers, fleeing to sit on the cloud cover and calm himself. He didn't stir from his reverie until the clouds were tinted in blues and grays, a nighttime storm. It felt unnatural, and he remembered why he was here.

Castiel saw the poltergeist and acted without thinking, torching the grave before he realized that Dean was down there, too, now being burned alive.

So he grasped the hunter's shoulder, right over the mark from their first encounter, and pulled him from the flames. _This feeling_ , he mused as he hauled Dean to safety, _I believe humans call it déjà vu_.

Then Dean muttered something, and Castiel remembered the way Dean had gasped out those instructions, the way he'd believed in the angel, when he taught him how to drive. Castiel couldn't help it -- he smiled.

Green eyes widened slightly, then slipped closed. 

  


~#~#~

  


They made it back to the motel by angel-zap, Impala and all. Inside, Sam looked sidewise at Castiel, who was standing beside Dean's motel bed with the mother of all conflicted expressions on his face. The younger Winchester couldn't figure the angel out, but all things considered, he couldn't care less what Castiel was thinking.

He moved to open the door. “Where are you going?” Castiel's low rumble of a voice carried surprisingly well. Sam glanced back over his shoulder. “Out,” he said shortly. He didn't need to explain himself to an angel. He felt a twinge at leaving while Dean was unconscious, but he was doing it to avoid the inevitable questions -- one of which, the angel had just asked. 

Thankfully Castiel didn't pursue the matter, just dropped his gaze back to the bed. _He's oddly focused on Dean_ , Sam thought fleetingly. _Do I care?_

_Eh. I don't really think I do._

With an expression not unlike a sneer, Sam shut the door quietly and walked away. He headed south. Midway past the Impala, as he entered a copse of straggly palms, he closed his eyes -- and vanished.

  


~#~#~

  


Dean woke in a motel bed, in a fresh pair of sweats and no shirt, with a major throbbing headache. “Hello?” he croaked. “Sam?”

Then: “Cas?”

“I am here, Dean,” came the graveled reply. Dean breathed a sigh of relief. “I was starting to think I'd imagined that rescue.”

“I pulled you from the flames once, so I did it again.”

Dean nodded, sinking into his pillow. Then he shot straight up, swiveling on the mattress til he was facing Castiel with his legs pulled up and his arms around them. “Didn't you start that fire?”

“I... did,” the angel said carefully. “I did not notice you were in the hole.”

“Didn't notice?” Dean quirked an eyebrow. “Can't you, like, see my soul, or something?”

“I can,” Castiel affirmed. “It glows.” He dropped Dean's gaze, staring a hole in the floor. “I was distracted. I -- I'm sorry.”

“Hey, it's okay,” Dean said, feeling an easy smile form on his lips. Castiel looked up, and when he focused on Dean something in his expression changed, and his lips parted slightly. He looked... conflicted.

Abruptly, he stood, hands behind his back, beginning to pace. “Sam left a few hours ago, and I don't know where he went. He has not been back, nor has he called.” 

Dean waved a hand. “I'm sure he's just off getting his Sam on. We are in a college town.”

“No, Dean.” Castiel's eyes were dark, serious. “I believe Sam is out developing his dark power.”

“Sounds naughty when you say it that way,” Dean said, stretching out his legs as he slid to the edge of the bed. He didn't want to have this conversation. Not with Castiel -- as glad as he was that the angel seemed back to his usual self -- not with anybody. Not even with Sam -- they never got anywhere, anyway. Difference of opinion.

"We need to find him," Castiel said. "The last few times I saw him, his soul had gathered more and more shadows. We must find him, while he still has some light left."

Dean stared at the floor. For awhile they sat and stood there, hunter and angel, silent.

Then green eyes met blue, and the two of them left without a word.

  


~#~#~

  


Sam Winchester stalked a ghoul through oppressively-sunny downtown Orlando, his mind elsewhere. The jump through the spacial planes had taken him further than he'd ever managed before -- the motel where he'd left his brother was hours of driving away.

 _Think of the travel time we'd save! The gas money!_ he imagined telling Dean, but he knew his brother wouldn't listen. Dean liked to drive, and he was notoriously close-minded about things he didn't like or even properly understand.

Plus, Dean had an angel on his shoulder.

Sam found himself liking Castiel less and less. There had always been something off-putting about him, even more so this last encounter. He was always appearing when Dean was alone, working to turn him against his own brother. Dean had always been a little weirded out by Sam's visions, and he may have grumbled about the mental exorcisms, but he'd only started speaking out against it all after meeting Castiel.

And then there were the nightmares Sam still had sometimes, of waking up woozy in the back seat of the Impala only to realize that Dean was dying in the front seat and Castiel was driving. Only when he went to check Dean's pulse, the dream varied from the memory -- in his mind, Dean was dead, and then he'd turn to Castiel only to meet a palm to his forehead and a sudden, blinding light... or worse, white eyes and a bloody mouth.

Not to mention whatever was going on in the angel's head right now. The way he'd been looking at Dean... It was almost like he had no idea what he was doing, either. Sam didn't know if he wished any of this on his brother at all, but it was Dean's mess now -- he could deal with it.

Sam turned down a narrow side street, ducking into the alley behind a strip mall. Pepto-Bismol walls with rusted pipes flanked him about two feet on either side. He knew the ghoul was crouching up ahead to the right. It thought it'd blended perfectly into those crowds on the boardwalk. It hadn't banked on his heightened sense of smell.

Something slid from the air behind him, smelling faintly of sulfur. Sam didn't turn, didn't even slow his pace. 

"'Bout time you got here, Cim."

A man as tall as he was -- dark-haired, lean-muscled, and wearing an expensive suit -- matched his stride. Together they filled the narrow space. Cim smiled coldly, crows' feet crinkling at the corners of eyes black as pitch.

"How was the trip?"

Sam grinned. "Made it all the way from Palm Coast."

"No nosebleed?"

"Not even a headache this time."

"Good." They rounded the corner fluidly and faced the startled ghoul side by side. It had taken the form of a teenage boy, all pimples and gangly limbs, and when it saw them it tensed to spring. The demon put his hand on Sam's shoulder and Sam raised a hand, concentrating on rending, tearing apart.

The ghoul shredded into a fine spray, mid-leap.

Screw Dean. This felt right.

“Ready to go?” Cim asked. Sam nodded, and they blinked out together.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean drove the Florida back roads (“because fuck I-95, that's why”) like he lived there. The Impala almost got stuck in sand once or twice, but was going so fast she barely lost traction. Castiel gripped his seat with both hands, but his head was flung back against the headrest, his eyes closed, lips parted in what was almost a blissful smile. 

“So, how do we find him?” Dean yelled over the music. It was about an hour in to their drive. They'd reached Jacksonville and had to get on the highway from there, so the windows were up and Castiel was no longer enjoying the trip. He remembered stop-and-go traffic from driving in the city, and also suspected that his vessel got motion-sick. He didn't like the feeling in his stomach one bit.

Focusing on Dean, the angel replied, “I can sense him to an extent -- there's nothing in the world quite like Sam right now, so he stands out -- but I can't take us to him, or get an exact location.”

“So which direction?” Dean pointed out the windshield at an approaching sign. 

Castiel peered at it. “North. Take us north.”

When the daylight began to fail, Dean told Castiel he was considering driving through. The angel shook his head emphatically. Driving was one thing; being stuck as a passenger was awful. 

They stopped in Waycross, Georgia. Their motel room was done in shades of lavender, and smelled faintly of cats. Castiel sat on the far bed from the door, and stared at the floor. Dean moved around the room, doing little bits of nothing.

After an awkward silence: “D'you want to watch TV, or something?”

Castiel looked up with a little smile. “If you like.” _I'm just glad to not be moving, for the time being._ He felt like he had when he'd finally been able to stop driving, like the world was still moving quickly around him while he was sitting still. 

Dean shrugged, thumbed the remote, and the TV crackled to life. 

The angel tried to understand the show. He did. He saw the people doing things, heard them talking, but after several scenes he had to admit it just didn't make sense. “Dean,” he said, and the hunter sighed. “What now, Cas?”

Castiel drew breath to speak, then closed his mouth. “Nothing,” he said finally.

Dean turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. It was a fluid movement, and the flicker from the TV caught in his eyes like captive sparks. Castiel couldn't look away. He wanted to see in more detail, so he moved closer, but in his distracted state he _flew_ closer. To Dean's eye, he disappeared and reappeared inches from Dean's nose.

“Cas!” Dean yelped, scrambling backwards so quickly he fell off the bed. When he poked his head back up from the floor, Cas was perched where he'd left him, wearing a look of abject confusion.

“What have I said about personal space, Cas?” Dean growled, trying to slow his heart rate. The angel canted his head to the side like he always did when he didn't understand, and it looked right this time. Dean's heart actually skipped a beat. He pounded his chest a few times, convinced it was a precursor to heart failure.

“I did not mean to startle you,” Castiel was saying. “There was a reflection in your eyes I wished to inspect with closer scrutiny.”

“It was probably just the TV,” Dean grumbled, standing. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and the shitty motel coverlet had actually scratched his chest. He rubbed the spot absently.

Castiel's nostrils flared.

“I must... go,” he said. “I will rejoin you after the sun rises.”

The sound of retreating wing-beats marked his passing. Dean stared at the spot where he'd been crouching, his eyes retaining the inverted after-image. Then he shook his head, and ordered some pay-per-view.

  


~#~#~

  


Castiel hadn't gone far. In fact, he was in the parking lot, standing with a faraway look in his eyes and one hand on the Impala's hood. She was still warm from their long drive, ticking comfortably beneath a faded street lamp. He stood with her for awhile, remembering.

 _I drove you_ , he thought pleasantly. _I would like to do it again._

_Maybe I should ask Dean if tomorrow I could drive._

Wholly immersed in that train of thought, Castiel flew back into the motel room, but before he could reveal himself something made him stop dead in his tracks.

The TV flickered in flesh tones, painting the scene before him. Dean was splayed out on the bed, panting, eagerly fucking his hand. He hadn't even taken his jeans off, just opened the zipper. There was a sheen of sweat on his face, and every so often his lips would part wider so he could lick them, low moans carried on his breaths. The sight was so striking that Castiel suddenly wanted to watch this forever, hearing those panting little groans, Dean's eyes rolling into his head as his whole body tensed, pulsing liquid shooting between his fingers. 

The hunter's languid sigh of satisfaction crawled its way up Castiel's spine, and the resulting shiver made the windows shake.

Dean's head whipped up. “Cas?” he croaked, hurriedly putting himself away.

But the angel wasn't about to appear now. He flew back out to the car, then to a distant mountain top, to stare at nothing and wonder, silently, what exactly had happened.

  


~#~#~

  


“Make me stronger.”

Sam's voice carried confidently across the expanse of marble architecture, echoing slightly. The demon Cim raised a dark eyebrow, but gave no reply, turning back to the book he held. Sam strode across the ancient library floor, heedless of cracks and discarded furniture. Not much hindered him any more -- unless it was a marquis of Hell more interested in Greek philosophy than in training his champion. He reached Cim and poked the open page of his book. “This won't win you wars, Cim. I will.”

“On the contrary,” the demon said, not looking up. “The ancient Greeks were formidable --”

He broke off, smiling. “You are already stronger than you were last month, Sam,” he said, his voice faintly garbled. Sam grinned, lowered his fist. “Some day I'll be able to crush your throat -- not that I _want_ to kill you, of course.”

Cim shrugged, closed the book. “The next step in your training will prepare you for a more distinct eventuality, but as a result requires a more intense focus.” Sam leaned forward eagerly. “Up til now, you've been hunting monsters.”

Far behind them, a section of the marble wall rumbled in on itself. Sam's nostrils twitched. Sulfur.

He spun to see a pack of five demons ranging out of the wall, leering. One was carrying a gun, the rest of them had knives. 

“Now, you're going to hunt demons,” Cim said, low in his ear. Sam's brow furrowed in both concentration and confusion as he raised a hand, but he didn't question it. Cim hadn't led him astray.

He focused on the demon holding the gun, twitching as power flooded through him. He didn't just exorcise the bastard, he smote it, wiping it from existence. It took a little more effort than the last time he'd done this, though, and as he turned to one of the others a thin sheen of sweat already stood out on his forehead. He managed to obliterate her, as well, but then they were on him and he had to dance away, ducking a knife thrust and lashing out with one long leg to catch another in the ribs. 

The demons pressed in close, never leaving him longer than a breath between attacks, so he was hard-pressed to achieve the level of concentration he needed to exorcise them. He became a whirlwind of fists and feet, striking whenever he could, always looking for an opening. He took care of one of the others with the discarded gun and a messy beheading, but then the remaining three went completely feral and pounced as one. In moments Sam's forearms looked like raw meat, deep slashes on his back and torso breathing fire whenever he overextended. 

The battle dragged on interminably, and Sam found his strength flagging. As an act of desperation, he threw himself backward, flipping up on one hand and using it to propel himself further across the room. He aimed for the mid-ceiling struts, but he misjudged the distance and his remaining strength and ended up crashing through an ornate screen, sliding with a screech across the marble floor.

In the gasping silence as he tried to catch his breath, Sam could hear the demons cackling.

Cim's voice in his ear. “Your telekinesis cannot help you if you cannot learn to use it unconsciously. It should be like breathing.” Sam closed his eyes, shut out the world around him for a dilated instant as he focused, deep within himself. His harsh breaths were like an avalanche.

“More than breathing,” Cim murmured. “Sam, this power should be as innate as the blood rushing through your veins.”

He was the swell of his power, his blood, his breath. He sank in and let it consume him, washing everything together in brilliant shades of gold behind his eyelids. In one momentous existential clash, Sam was one with himself, and lightning sang along his body's leylines. He felt remade, unique, and more capable than ever before. This was the breakthrough Cim had been promising. This was the unleashing of his potential.

Sam had never felt so wildly free.

“With each beat of your heart,” Cim proclaimed softly, “an enemy should fall.”

With his next breath Sam flexed his mind on his inhale and unleashed with his exhale, grinning smugly when he heard a demon die. He sat up, and another died. He leapt to his feet.

The last demon, he let get within a yard. Then he folded it in half -- backwards.

Cim opened another book, satisfied smile never quite touching his eyes.

  


~#~#~

  


“It might go faster if we split up,” Dean said, glaring at the horizon. As much ground as he and Castiel were covering, they could only travel in one direction. “America is fucking huge.”

The angel was silent in the passenger seat, like he had been for the past few days. Ever since that odd night in the motel. Dean wasn't about to ask him what was wrong, since he had a sinking feeling that it would stray into the uncomfortable, probing, lay-on-the-couch-and-tell-me-how-you-feel sort of conversation.

“I can sense him. You cannot,” Castiel said suddenly, still gazing out the window. “Traveling separately would not be wise.”

Dean shot him a sideways glance. Okay, then. “Can you tell how far away he is?” he asked, mainly to continue filling the silence. 

A rustle of clothing as Castiel shifted. Dean could feel those blue eyes boring into his skin. “I can estimate a day's drive at our current speed.” A pause. “A day is twenty-four hours, correct?”

Dean nodded, focusing a little too hard on the road. “If you want to drive through,” he said.

“No!” Castiel cut him off hastily, sitting up a little straighter. “No,” he amended, “my vessel's tailbone is becoming sore.”

“Can't you just heal it?” Dean asked, curious. As far as he'd known, angels didn't feel pain. “I could,” Castiel acquiesced, “but it would be more reasonable to forgo the need entirely.”

A long moment of silence stretched between them. Before Dean could think of anything to say, however, he heard Castiel say in a very small voice: “And you... probably need to sleep.”

Dean blinked. Hoped that didn't mean what he thought it might. Wondered what it would mean if it did. 

_I wonder where we'll be in six hours_ , his brain interjected numbly. 

  


~#~#~

  


They stopped just inside of the Tennessee border and found a ranch-style motel where all the little buildings were one-story. Theirs was on the end, behind it a wide, scraggly expanse of empty lot. Castiel stared out across it as the light faded. He could hear Dean scrounging around in the trunk. 

“Cas!” came a bellow, and the angel almost smiled as he turned. Dean was holding up two different bottles. “Whiskey, or tequila?”

The angel's head canted to the side; he did that almost automatically whenever Dean spoke. “I am not... why?”

The hunter grinned, replaced one of the bottles, and slammed the trunk closed. “Because I feel like drinking,” he said when he drew closer. “Come on, let's do some shots.”

It occurred to Castiel that something might be wrong, but if it made Dean happy... he'd figure out what shots were, and do them.

Dean led the way into their room. The air from the A/C came out musty from disuse, and everything was done in a horseshoe pattern, but the place was cozy and actually rather open. He could walk between the TV and the beds without feeling like he'd knock into them, and there was a little table with two chairs in one corner. The bathroom had a shower with an honest-to-God tub.

And here he was, about to teach an angel how to shoot whiskey.

He would have chosen the tequila, because it's complicated and fun and really puts the whammy on you if you're not careful, but he didn't have any limes. _No shortage of salt in this house_ , he thought with a mental snort. 

Dean turned to Castiel and noticed that the angel seemed, well, a little anxious. His face wasn't as expressionless as usual. It occurred to him that maybe Castiel himself had no idea anything was showing on his face -- after all, it was just a vessel to house his true form. _Blank_ or _all-in_ seemed to be the only two speeds. 

So he ignored it. Moving to the table, he set up two shot glasses and poured a full one for himself, a half for Castiel. The angel took the proffered drink and studied it, and the seriousness made Dean chuckle. “Like this,” he said, and knocked his back like a pro.

Castiel followed suit, and swallowed with a look of distaste. Dean watched him try to understand the warmth spreading through his vessel's belly. “That is... not unpleasant,” the angel said finally, “although the taste leaves much to be desired.”

“That's the thing about drinking,” Dean said lightly, pouring two full shots. “You keep going until the taste doesn't matter.”

When they finished off the bottle, Dean was weaving on his feet. Pounding that many shots one after another will drunken even the most experienced drinker, he reassured himself, but it was still disconcerting when his eyes crossed of their own accord. He focused on the angel. Castiel's face was slightly flushed, but he didn't even look tipsy. “Is there any more?” he asked in that growl of his.

“There's tequila in the trunk,” Dean said, proud of himself for barely slurring the words. “But we don't have any limes.” Not so proud of that sentence.

“Limes?” Those blue eyes just got so damned wide when Castiel was confused, which was always. Dean laughed, and the room tilted, so he flopped sideways on to a bed. “Limes,” he said slowly, stretching the sounds.

“You are drunk, Dean,” Castiel said observationally. Dean nodded. “Yup. Drinking with you apparently lowers my tolerance.”

“Do you want to watch TV?”

There was something in the angel's voice when he said that, but Dean's mind was slippery and he lost whatever inkling he might have had. “Nah,” he replied, staring at the ceiling. “I might just pass out like this.”

He could feel Castiel watching him, so he propped himself up on an elbow. The angel was still standing by the table, holding his empty glass. Dean gestured to the other bed.

“I know angels don't sleep,” he said, suddenly too tired to focus on not slurring, “but you should lay there and contemplate the universe, or something. 'S creepy, you standing there all night.”

“I can leave,” came the reply.

“Nah,” Dean said, scootching on his back up to the pillow. He was fighting unconsciousness by this point but wanted to say this one last thing. “Nah, Cas, you should definitely stay here. We're in this together, remember?”

Then he was out, snoring in seconds, so he missed the light that came into those blue eyes. Castiel positioned himself on his back on the bed, but then he remembered that the brothers usually turned out the lights in the room when they went to sleep. He rolled on to his side.

Even sprawled out, snoring like a hacksaw, his freckled face flushed with drink, Dean Winchester was beautiful, and when Castiel realized that was truly what he thought, the light went out on its own.

Actually, the whole motel lost power.

  


~#~#~

  


The sub-basement was lit with hundreds of candles, turning the dank space into a flickering cavern. Sam stood opposite a cloth-draped altar from Cim, who was thumbing through an enormous book and frowning. The younger Winchester shifted his weight. “Can't find what you're looking for?” he asked, trying and failing not to sound impatient.

“I am trying to find the more concise version of the ritual, since you seem to be so concerned with time.” Cim's voice was strained. He leafed through a few more pages. “I know I had it marked, but --”

“Yeah, yeah. I said I was sorry.” Sam had been itching to turn it up to eleven once he figured out how to flex his power, and when he finally did, the entire library imploded.

“Not to say I wasn't impressed,” Cim said with a thin smile. “Ah, here we are. Right -- put your hands on those two symbols on the altar, and focus.”

The ritual was a complex one, and Sam wasn't even sure he properly understood it, even after he had endeavored to do just that. He didn't like walking in to anything unprepared, particularly not a demonic sacrament. Hell, he'd never considered participating in a demonic _anything_ , but he was all for furthering this awesome potential he held within himself. 

He thought it couldn't get better, after his zen session during the demon match, but after the inertia died down he'd still felt an untapped well just out of reach. And Dean hadn't gotten all the stubborn in the Winchester family.

So, that led to this ritual. Oh, Sam understood the basics of what they were doing just fine, for the most part. Cim would say the words, and Sam would channel his power through the symbols on the altar until it -- or something -- filled the chalice that sat in the middle. Then he'd drink what was in the chalice, and burn it away inside himself. Somehow. Cim got very frustrated when Sam kept asking how, exactly, he would be doing that.

“You'll feel it,” the demon snapped. “It will make sense. Just please, stop pestering me.”

Now, as Cim spoke the incantation -- first Latin, then the tongue of demons -- Sam realized that was the case. He felt the symbols stir beneath his hands and he closed his eyes, willing his energies along his arms and down into them. He heard a rushing of liquid and his eyes snapped open, focusing on the chalice, which was filling with something silvery. It glowed pleasantly. Sam's eyes narrowed in suspicion. _What_ is _that I'll be drinking?_

It should have bothered him that he didn't question the whole thing further.

Cim's voice reached a clarion pitch and then he cut off, and Sam staggered back from the table, gasping. His arms ached. It felt like he'd drained all the blood out of them three days prior and they hadn't recovered -- a dull, empty pang.

The chalice was full to the brim.

Sam knew what he had to do. He moved around the table, took up the cup in trembling hands, and raised it to his lips. The silvery substance was warm, but not displeasing; it had a taste like honey wine. He kept drinking, but it was a large chalice, and after a bit he began to notice that the liquid was souring, tasting like the smell of garbage. All of a sudden he choked, some of the stuff sloshing back into the cup.

“Finish it, Sam,” Cim said, and there was black warning in his tone. Sam groaned, closed his eyes, and downed the awful substance in one sickening swallow.

The moment the last of it hit, his stomach cramped up and he doubled over with a gasp. Cim was there, catching him, holding him upright. “Concentrate!” the demon was saying, but the pain and the roiling in his gut were turning him inside out. Sam could barely hear him. 

Cim slapped him, hard across the face, dragging him up to look him in the eye. “Finish the ritual, Sam,” the demon growled. Sam shook his head, blinking, exhaled loudly through his nose --

\-- and _concentrated_. 

Later he would think of it as a blinding flash, even though there was no visible light, and everything took place in his stomach. But it felt as though the whole place went nuclear. There was a void within him, then a rush like displaced energy, and Sam cried out, falling to his knees. The stuff was burning him up from the inside out, but he smothered it, turned it to mist like he had the ghoul, and then pushed, integrating that mist within his very atoms. His eyes rolled back into his head, and the world went white. 

He awoke on a cool stone floor. Cim looked up the moment Sam opened his eyes.

“It is done,” the demon said, with an air of heavy finality. “How do you feel?”

Sam struggled to sit up.

'I --” he paused to think about it, and the candles flickered en masse. His eyes widened. “Did I just --” He exhaled through his nose, and all but a few of the candles snuffed themselves. “Oh, wow.”

It was dark, but somehow his vision was clearer. He felt light, unburdened. Better than he had in... well, in _ever_.

Sam hummed contentedly to himself, and the floor cracked.

He never saw the shadow cross Cim's eyes.

  


~#~#~

  


Triumph singing through his veins, Sam decided to visit his brother. He found him almost instantly, tucked away in dusty country motel. For some reason, he appeared a ways away, behind the building that housed Dean's room, rather than right at the door. He strode up to the room, a huge grin plastered on his face, all ecstatic and bouncy from what he'd just done -- only to stop, and stare hard at the curtained window.

Castiel was in there, too. He could hear the angel's three-pack-a-day voice, apparently having figured out how to banter, ebb and flow around Dean's. The familiar golden rasp of his brother's voice was warm, a little slurred. He was drunk, having fun. With the angel.

A sudden surge of -- Sam didn't know, jealousy? Rage? Disappointment? -- flooded through him and his hands balled into fists. He was staring at those curtains, he could almost see through them, and he could hear his brother laughing with the angel and it just made him feel so... 

Before he knew what he was doing his fist was millimeters from the glass.

Sam choked out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He couldn't let Dean know he was here. Angel or no angel, Dean would drag the truth of everything out of his little brother faster than he could reload a pistol, which considering everything they'd been through was pretty damn fast. Dean was ruthless, he was stubborn, and he was family. And Sam had no intention of revealing himself at this stage in the game. Not when it still looked wrong.

So Sam bit down on anything he felt like storming in there and saying. He turned on his heel, followed his tracks back into the empty lot, and escaped on a thought and a breath.

  


~#~#~

  


Dean stirred in his sleep. “Sammy...” he groaned softly. Castiel turned his head, but the hunter shifted restlessly for a moment and then began to snore even louder.


	4. Chapter 4

They made it to Chicago a few days later. Castiel told Dean in his usual flat tone that he was certain Sam was there. Bobby called as they entered the city, and by some happy coincidence there was a rougarou to gank there, too. Dean rolled his eyes, and it was somehow conveyed over the phone. 

“Heaven forbid you do any of this yourself,” Bobby groused.

“Sorry, Bobby,” Dean said, not sorry at all. “Thanks for the info. I'll call you later, once we've got it.”

“Have you heard from Sam?” There was nothing in Bobby's tone; perhaps some faint concern. Dean's jaw clenched. “He's fine, Bobby, just wanted some time. We'll be seeing him in a day or so.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Yeah, Bobby, we're cool.” Dean didn't expect the old hunter to let that one go, but Bobby just sighed and told him to be careful. Dean hung up, dissatisfied.

“You do not want his help, in this matter?” Castiel asked.

“Nah, Cas, I don't want him worryin' about Sammy when he's my responsibility.” Dean parked the car in a public lot and squinted through the windshield. “So the last victim lived in that apartment building --” he pointed “-- and the others were within a ten-mile radius, so I figure I'll start there and make an outward sweep. You could take the opposite direction...?”

“Do you have the... flame thrower?” Castiel said, pronouncing the words like they were odd in his mouth. Dean grinned. “Oh, yeah.”

The angel nodded solemnly. “Then yes, we will each take separate directions. Pray for me if you find the creature.”

“Our Cas, who art in Chicago, hallowed be thine smite,” Dean joked, shoving the car door open. 

The flame thrower was a reassuring weight on his back, the nozzle's trigger secure in his hand. He scouted alleyways and fire escapes with narrowed, practiced eyes. He had a story in case anyone asked -- exterminator, neighborhood inspection -- but no one even spared him a second glance. 

He soon discovered that this particular neighborhood had a serious maze of alleyways at its heart, after taking too many turns and not ending back at the main road. Brick walls ranged fifteen stories on either side, with directionless turns ahead of and behind him. Dean had no idea where north was, and it was seriously messing with his internal compass. He was actually feeling the first vestiges of nausea.

Distracted, intent on figuring out the maze, Dean didn't hear the rougarou approaching until it was dragging on the contraption attached to his back, trying to claw his neck and arms. _Castiel!_ he prayed frantically, his mind refusing to come up with even the simplest sentence to accompany the name. He smelled the thing like a blow to his face, the stench of clotted blood and rotten meat rolling off it in waves. It snarled, the sound garbled by something unthinkable in its gullet. Trying to pull away, Dean stuck the nozzle of the flame thrower under his arm, pointed it in what he hoped was the right direction, and squeezed the trigger.

Flame burst along his side, searing away his T-shirt, drawing a hiss between his clenched teeth. The rougarou howled, stumbling backward, and Dean was finally able to spin and face it. It looked like it had been a businessman, once, still dressed in the tattered remnants of a suit. Its dinner-plate eyes tracked Dean hungrily as he shifted, the burn on his side starting to itch hotly.

Then he strode forward, and pulled the trigger back again.

A small spurt of flame, then nothing. Click. Click. He took an abortive step backward, eyes not leaving the creature. It realized it wasn't on fire and a hideous, gaping grin struck its face. Then it was lunging forward --

\-- only to explode into a fine mist all over the alleyway, and Dean.

He dropped the nozzle, then shrugged out of the pack, casting it aside as his expression darkened. He focused on the tall man at the other end of the alley, whose hand was falling lazily back to his side. 

Sam was grinning but it felt wrong, even if it looked the same beneath those floppy bangs. Dean wasn't close enough to see his brother's eyes, and he suddenly really wanted to. He wanted to see if the clenching in his gut had any foundations in truth.

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean said casually, lifting a hand to wave. “How ya been?”

“So-so,” came the reply, pitched low but it still carried effortlessly. He sounded the same, Dean thought, but still... _why can't I shake this?_

_And where's Cas?_

“How'd you, uh, go all Jedi Mind... Mist-Maker on that thing?” As quips went, it definitely wasn't his finest, but it did buy him distraction enough to take a few more steps down the alley. He could almost see his brother's eyes. Sam gave him an appraising look. “How do you think I did it, Dean,” the younger Winchester said flatly. 

Dean's heart sank.

“How did you even get to this point, man?” he asked, hating the little bit of desperation that entered his voice, but this was Sammy, damnit, this was his baby brother, and fuck it all if Sammy's eyes weren't the weirdest shade of -- they fluctuated between brown and black and the whites of them had a little bit of a bio-luminescent sheen. Dean wished he'd stayed at the other end of the alley.

“Well, you know how it started,” Sam said lightly, hands sheathed in his pockets, the very picture of nonchalance. “Ruby helped me figure it out. She helped me with a lot of things, actually -- helped me understand that I wasn't a freak, that these powers were a gift, and that I should be using what I'd been given.” There was a little hint of a leer when he said that last bit. “And then...”

“Then I killed the bitch.” _Whaddaya want, an apology?_ Dean stared defiantly at his brother, refusing to let any panic or that sudden, clenching despair well to the surface. 

“Yeah... that didn't so much matter,” Sam said flippantly, raising a hand to inspect his fingers. “She got me started, but she didn't teach me jack shit.”

“How did you know what to do, then?” _Keep him talking, back away slowly and just keep him talking... Cas, man, what's keeping you?_

"I figured it out myself," Sam lied. "Didn't take a genius to see those vials she was giving me were full of demon blood. After you killed her --" that phrase held a sickening amount of blame "-- I just felt worse and worse and my powers faded, until I was forced to seek strength on my own." He shifted his weight, lowered his chin to stare at Dean through his bangs. "It's not like you would have helped me figure it out."

Sam's shaded, shifting eyes were wormholes to Hell, and something caught in Dean's throat. "Sammy," he croaked, "don't do this. Come back with me. We can figure out --"

"No, Dean, don't you see?" Sam's tone was resigned. "It could never happen any other way." He began to walk toward Dean, and the movement was so predatory that the hunter almost wasn't surprised when his brother raised a hand and added, "I'm so much stronger, now, what I do doesn't just affect demons, or mindless monsters."

Dean felt pressure on his throat and could have wept.

"Sammy, don't Vader me, man, that's -- _awk_ ," his trachea was touching sides and he couldn't breathe and all he could see was Sam's damned eyes.

He fell to his knees, mouthing for air, trying not to claw at his throat. _Cas, where are you?_

Sam's lips twitched in a smirk.

For the first time, Dean felt like he may actually have to kill his little brother.

Then lack of air forced his consciousness down to a pinpoint under clouds of shifting grays, and he fell to his side on the stinking alley pavement. As his eyes rolled back into his head, he heard Sam walk away. The sound of footsteps fell away much sooner than he it expected to, but then again, he was much more focused on trying to inhale.

The pressure on his neck took an agonizing length of time to dissipate. _Damn, he's gotten strong_. Dean shifted, groaned, and rolled to just lay on his back and breathe for a bit. His abused throat protested at the use but his starved lungs didn't care, so they all gulped air together, reveling in it.

_Sammy..._

Dean mourned, then, as he lay in the alley. _I don't want to kill him, I want to save him_. And even as he asked himself hopelessly _how?_ , his mind was already kicking in to overdrive. Trank gun, tie him up, take him to Bobby's panic room... _hmm, could I get a foam isolation box?_

"Excuse me, sir?" Dean rolled to his feet at the sound of this new voice, only to nearly laugh at the irony of it all when he saw a cop standing cautiously at one of the anonymous turns. "Are you all right?" the man called.

"Never better," Dean said as breezily as he could manage. His voice was lower and raspier than usual. "I'm going to go get a shower."

"Do you need a ride?" the cop asked, ever professional. He barely even wrinkled his nose as Dean, covered in alley muck and something that really couldn't be identified as blood anymore, drew abreast of him. The elder Winchester flashed his most winning smile.

"I appreciate it, but you don't want all this crap on your upholstery." He didn't really want it on his, either, but he was a good ways away from the motel, and _like hell I'm leaving my baby somewhere._

The cop let him saunter off without another word. Dean supposed that all the grime on his skin covered the bruises on his throat.

But later, as he toweled off, he stared at his neck in the mirror. Sammy's Dark Side powers hadn't left a single mark.

Dean didn't feel sickened, or angry -- just deeply, overwhelmingly sad.

  
~#~#~  


A month later he announced to himself in a different mirror: "I need a drink." His unshaven reflection nodded. Dean reached for the half-empty bottle of whiskey he'd placed on the back of the toilet.

"Hello, Dean," came a familiar, graveled voice from _right next to him_. Castiel's face registered in the mirror a split second before Dean was leaping, twisting around, slipping and falling on his ass in the tub. A pained groan wrenched from his throat, which had never quite recovered from Sam's tender ministrations -- _on top of all this, a goddamn bruised tailbone, Jesus fuck that hurts!_

"I do wish you would not blaspheme," Castiel said mildly as he held out a hand. Dean took it, allowed himself to be effortlessly strong-armed out of the tub. "I thought you couldn't read my thoughts?" he said snidely, re-wrapping the towel that had fallen too low on his hips.

"Your thoughts were written rather expressively across your face," the angel said.

Dean sighed, dragging his hand through his water-spotted hair. A fine spray arose. "So... 's been awhile," he said finally, when it was clear Castiel was just going to stand there. Not waiting for an answer he grabbed the pair of clean jeans he'd laid on the toilet lid, turned his back and dropped his towel.

An unseen flock of birds passing by, that's what it sounded like when Castiel left. Dean raised an eyebrow. _Modesty_ , he noted, surprised. _That's new._

He dressed mechanically, not even paying attention to what shirt he put on. "Castiel, who art somewhere nearby, you can... come back now," he said lamely, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Bird wings. "You do not put much creativity into your prayers." The way he said it, the phrase was just an observation, so there was no need to actually vocalize the _I'm not a fucking poet_ that circled atop Dean's tongue. Dean looked up at him, that familiar rumpled trench coat, perpetual five-o'clock shadow, deep circles beneath eyes like the sky. Castiel looked as weary as the hunter felt.

"What do I do about Sam?" Dean asked, unthinking. He'd been wondering something more along the lines of, where _were you when that went down?_ and _Where have you been all this time?_ He was glad of what came out of his mouth, though, because Dean Winchester Is Not Needy.

Aw, who was he kidding. He needed his brother, needed to be needed by him like he always had been, and in the absence of that it was looking like he needed Castiel -- if only to keep him sane.

"Sam has made his choice," came the reply he didn't want to hear. "He has sided with the demons, no matter how he may protest that this is just a means to an end."

Dean stood, got right in Castiel's face. They were inches apart, and something hummed between them as he said, very quietly, "I forbid you to kill my brother."

"Dean, you are thinking about doing it yourself. How is that different?"

"He's my brother." He felt that should explain anything, all of it. "And I thought you couldn't read my mind."

"I don't have to." What was that, flickering through those fathomless eyes? "I rebuilt you from nothing. I know you better than you know yourself. You wear your emotions... prominently."

Dean realized how close they were when Castiel closed the distance, holding his gaze, lips moving micrometers from his own. No breath ghosted across his face -- yet another reminder of the alien thing that was an angel -- but the movement sent small breezes dancing away. "Dean," Castiel was saying, "no one knows you like I do."

Then Dean was backing away, breathing air that wasn't charged with unsung electricity. "Personal space, Cas," he said, and to his shock and dismay his voice betrayed him as a breathy growl. The angel's head canted to the side. "What is it called," he asked, "when a person says one thing but does another?"

The hunter glowered. "That's called duplicity, Cas. Are you trying to say --"

"Sam is being... duplicitous," Castiel said, tasting the unfamiliar word. Dean tensed and all the confusion and anger flowed into indignation. "Sammy wouldn't lie to me!"

"And you are being naive," Castiel continued evenly. "He must be stopped. His powers had grown to such an extent that the last time you and I saw each other...” A look of consternation twisted his features. “I heard you praying, but something held me in place. For many days.”

Dean remembered the pressure on his throat, how it had taken so long to fade. _He let me up to focus on holding Cas down._ Then: _Sam held an angel in place for a month with his_ mind _. Holy fucking shit._

“As you doing the deed, considering your feelings, would also be duplicitous,”Castiel continued, oblivious, “then the task must fall to myself or another of the Host." His gaze softened somewhat. "I would make it my personal mission to –"

The door banged open and there stood Sam, shoulders heaving. His right arm dripped blood. The look on his face was venomous.

"You're plotting to kill me?" he spat, and his sneering tone was a dagger in Dean's chest. "Low, even for a washed-up wannabe angel and his catamite."

Dean didn't know what that was supposed to mean, but it was obviously an insult. Grief and fury fought, and he knew it was plain on his face. "You're not my brother," the hunter snarled, hoping against hope. "Get your black-eyed ass out of --"

"No, Dean," Sam said as one would to a child, "it's me." 

And, truly, the holy water Dean took the opportunity to douse him with had no effect. His heart dropped to the soles of his shoes. "What happened to you, Sammy?" he whispered brokenly.

"I woke the fuck up!" Sam laughed, a sharp, terrible sound. "My power is incessant, unlimited! I've never felt this free. You might even say --" and there was a mad glint to his eye that curried nausea "-- I've found God."

Castiel stared at Sam, unwilling to believe his own eyes. 

He hadn't sensed the man approach. He hadn't sensed him for awhile, as a matter of fact -- he'd been unwilling to tell Dean, in Chicago, that the real reason they'd stopped there was because Castiel had no idea where to go.

Now, as he stared at the younger Winchester standing there, he knew exactly why that was.

The warm glow of Sam's mortal soul was... not gone, but diffused, and pulsing unhealthily. The sickening pulses spread evenly throughout his whole body, twisting its lines. It was almost like... the angel's eyes widened, his mouth slack, incredulous.

_Almost like he'd consumed his own soul._

With a strangled cry, Castiel leapt forward, angel-blade sliding from his sleeve, but Sam slapped his bloody hand on the outside wall and mid-leap the angel disappeared.

"Gotta love Enochian sigils," Sam grinned smugly. 

Dean squared his shoulders. "What do you want, Sam?"

Sam took a step inside the room, then another. "I want us to be brothers, Dean, like we always were." He held out his bloody hand, a peace offering. "I know that together we could defeat anything that comes at us."

"I'll never join you," Dean quoted softly.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Enough with the Star Wars parallels, dude, seriously." He dropped his hand. "Don't you want to be able to put down monsters without risking our lives? I can do that now. Dean, I took out a shtriga in Cincinnati last week with nothing but my mind. And we can --"

"Sammy, please. Stop." Dean was amazed his voice was that steady. "You're killing yourself. I don't want to lose you, man."

Any goodwill dropped from Sam's expression. "You and the angel were talking about putting me down like a dog," he said flatly.

"Cas was just --"

"No, Dean." Sam's eyes narrowed. "You've got a hell of a blind spot when it comes to that guy. He's a soldier. He follows orders. _He doesn't think for himself._ If Heaven is convinced I've gone rogue, then he won't hunt me down just to chat."

 _Have you gone rogue?_ was on the tip of Dean's tongue, and of course, Sam saw right through him. "Every enlightened man experiences tyranny and oppression,” he said, “and then years down the road it's discovered that he wasn't mad -- he was right."

A backhanded slap of raw power swept Dean off his feet and across the room before he could say anything. He hit the bathroom door frame sideways, bent around it and slammed into the fixtures. Pain flared in multiple limbs, spread like fire across his torso. His jaw was broken, and he couldn't breathe. 

Sam was over him in an instant, moving with inhuman speed to push his knee into Dean's sternum. Dean clawed at his brother's leg, but it was like trying to scratch titanium with a twig. The edges of his vision sparked and spread gray as Sam bent over, placing all of his weight on that knee, and Dean felt his sternum give way, ribs bowing like dying branches under the strain. "I want you to think about it, Dean," his brother said tenderly. "Just give me that much."

Then Sam was gone, with not even a breeze to mark his passing, and Dean gasped his way into unconsciousness on the tile.

  
~#~#~  


He woke to concerned sky-colored eyes not inches above his own, but he didn't even twitch. "Hey Cas," he choked. "You miss me?"

"You were blue," the angel said without preamble. "The force of the impact broke many bones, and your sternum was crushed."

"But I guess you healed me, yeah?" Dean grunted as he sat up unhindered, Castiel moving fluidly back as he did. A pale hand grasped his own and for the second time that day hauled Dean to his feet. 

The angel's eyes were inscrutable. "Do you believe me now?"

"He's still my brother," Dean said stubbornly, not meeting Castiel's gaze. "I have to believe I can save him."

"Your tenacity will be your undoing," Castiel grated out, his jaw clenching. He was actually angry. Dean stared doggedly at the far wall. "You have blinded yourself in regards to Sam,” the angel spat, “and your refusal to see sense is born of sheer pigheadedness. He has become _wicked_ , Dean -- and _'the wicked shall perish'_."

Dean's eyes slid to Castiel's, locked there, and before he knew what was happening he strode across the floor and snapped his fist into Castiel's jaw. He felt a knuckle break and grunted in pain. The angel barely moved.

Rage like he'd never felt came spilling from deep inside him and Dean balled his other fist, aiming specifically to break Castiel's nose. A pale hand caught the fist, twisted it to the side, and Dean yelped as his wrist shattered and he was forced to his knees. 

Then with a touch, he was healed.

"I'm sorry, Dean," the angel said, sorrowfully, and then with a muted flapping of many wings he was gone.

"Cas, you bastard!" Dean screamed at empty air. "Don't you touch him!"

With newly healed fists he took his frustrations out on the room, punching holes in the drywall and yanking huge pieces down. Mirrors and framed pictures, shattered. Everything wooden, he reduced to splinters. He took a knife to the other twin bed, flipped up the mattress and threw it through the window. Lastly, shoulders heaving, he stalked over and pulled the shower head out of the wall. Water sprayed everywhere, flooding the bathroom, and as it soaked into the carpet Dean shouldered his duffel and left, slamming the door behind him so hard that it cracked.

He threw himself into the Impala and peeled out, choking the wheel, his face a dissonant mask. He had no idea where to look, but he did know that he had to find Sam before the angel did.


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel felt little emotion. Certainly not in the way of humans. Righteous fury, such as that directed toward demons, and infinite peace, in the glow of Heaven, or even brotherhood, when he joined in the song of the Host.

But as he winged his way north toward the dark, pulsing spot he now knew to be Sam, Castiel felt a sadness so palpable it roiled in his stomach. Were he human, he'd feel sick. Harmonizing with this sadness was a bright, hot anger, a miniature sun in his chest. He could think of nothing save what he had to do, and he could already see the look on Dean's face when he told him it was done.

Every so often, his mind would flash back to the sight of Sam standing there, dripping his own blood, his skin writhing with the particles of his decimated soul. Remembering that brought minute shivers that had nothing to do with the stratosphere's subzero wind chill. He knew it was possible -- had known since his creation, as all angels knew so many things -- but he also knew no one had ever done it before with positive results. It had been centuries since the last one...

Speaking of, the ebb and flow of time was just so difficult to grasp. How long had he been in flight? Castiel knew other things about Sam's new-found prowess that he'd deigned not to share with Dean; for instance, that Sam could travel with the speed of a demon, blink out of one place and in to another. Castiel could travel that way too, but for tracking he preferred to fly straight, rather than direct. Especially if he wasn't sure how to deal with his adversary.

At any rate, he judged his travel time to be around three or four days from where he'd left Dean, if the rise and fall of the sun at the corner of his vision was in any way accurate.

The fourth night, Sam's ruined essence flared strongly within a building just below him and he dipped, landing several feet from the structure. It was a cabin, surrounded for several miles by trees. Smoke channeled lazily though a thick chimney, and the firelight flickered through the windows. Castiel couldn't see movement inside, but only one thing in the universe had energies like that. He knew Sam was there.

Just as Sam most likely sensed him.

So he reentered flight and moved to the window, invisible to human eyes. He saw Sam standing before the fire, a drink in one hand and a phone to his ear. He was saying something and laughing, strolling aimlessly around that half of the room. Castiel tracked his movements, saw where he'd be in two steps, and appeared there, knife flashing up into Sam's ribs.

Except, almost predictably, he wasn't there. He was halfway across the room, raising a hand, and Castiel barely had time to brace --

\-- before he was slammed backward into the fireplace.

The angel reeled at the strength of the blow as he reoriented, healing. Sparking coals fell from his trench coat as he began to glow, his grace swelling within him, preparing to burn Sam out of existence.

Then he was shoved back down, his grace somehow out of reach. Castiel struggled, trapped against the designs of the grate, increasingly concerned when he failed to break free. Suddenly, he felt the rushing whisper of flame eating his clothes -- he smelled cooking meat. 

Pain flared into existence before he could even discern what it was. Sam's mental fist held him unerringly tight against the fire and the tempered metal burning his vessel's flesh. Agony tore through Castiel in waves, every nerve screaming. He bucked, twisted, just trying to escape, barely aware of the mindless wails wrenching from his throat. His back was melting, lava twisting through his muscles and setting his bones alight. He even felt his wings catch fire and burn til they were gone -- even if that had to be a hallucination.

Because all this pain meant he was once again a mere human, and he was being charred alive.

Sam's face loomed, right in front of his, so close the angel's eyes crossed -- or was that a precursor to passing out? The younger Winchester's eyes were so dark, the pupils blown wide, his irises two slender, writhing rings. The sclera glowed a faint silver. _Blasphemer..._ Castiel couldn't even form the word, his throat torn from screaming, his lips cracked and dry.

When Sam stepped back the angel barely noticed, telekinetic force lifting his burning body from the fireplace. He hung in the air, face to face with his tormentor, eyes glazing as they stared at nothing. His skin was crawling with millions of tiny insects, all of them biting. 

“I'm sure you've learned your lesson,” Sam's voice said from a long way off, “but just in case --“

A rush of air as he was tossed across the room, and Castiel knew no more.

  


~#~#~

  


Dean found himself back in that country town where he'd met Kendra, having driven there without actually giving much thought to where he was going. After he recognized the place, he decided to stay the night -- there were happy memories there. Plus, Liv could pour some awesome drinks.

He got a room at the same motel, a double on the ground floor out of habit, and tossed his duffel on one of the beds. A cursory examination in the mirror showed him the beginnings of a beard and some smudged circles beneath his eyes, so he took the time to shower, shave, even brush his teeth again. By the time he felt ready -- and was finished antagonizing himself for being such a girl -- it was coming on full night.

Dean strode off down the street, breathing the cooling air, feeling more confident by the step. By the time he was opening the door to the bar, he was actually smiling.

The whole town was in there. Well, pretty much. Every table was full, and there weren't any seats left at the bar either. There was a dance floor now, a new addition built into the left wall, and as Dean stepped in the DJ (there was a DJ. Dean did a double take.) said something unintelligible into the microphone. Dean's gaze slid along the wall, the people moving on the dance floor.

“Oh, my god -- Dean?”

As he turned, the song started.

_“On the other side of a street I knew, stood a girl that looked like you...”_

Dean's jaw dropped to the floor. 

It was Kendra, but it was Castiel. It was Kendra and she looked _exactly like Castiel_.

_“I guess that's déjà vu -- but I thought this can't be true...”_

Her once shoulder-length auburn hair was now a short, black mop, and she'd gelled it a little. She was thinner, and paler, and her eyes were that spring-sky blue. She was even wearing a khaki jacket, over a white collared top and a little tie.

Dean stared. He didn't smile. After an awkwardly long moment, her own little grin faded a bit. "Don't you recognize me?"

He struggled out of his shock, shoved himself back into his bar routine. "'Course I do, babe, just taking in the new look is all." His grin felt forced, but she didn't seem to notice. She twirled, and he noticed her navy blue pleated skirt when it flared up, lit by the strobes. "Whaddaya think?" she asked back over her shoulder, as she moved toward the bar, beckoning. "This has been me post-recovery."

Dean pointedly did not stare at her ass, which was perfect in that skirt. "It's really... unique -- hey, recovery from what?"

They reached the bar and the locals parted easily for Kendra, who dragged Dean in with her. He leaned on the bar-top, facing her with maybe an inch between them. She looked up at him with eyes that suddenly seemed to big for her face. "I was... well, it was bad.” A shadow crossed her face. “I've been in the hospital pretty much since I saw you last. I just got released yesterday." She picked at her sleeve. "'S why I'm so pale."

 _Jesus tap-dancing Christ_. Dean leaned in. "Pale suits you," he murmured in her ear, feeling triumphant when she shivered.

"Wanna get out of here?" she purred, her hand finding his thigh.

He laughed. "Does Liv do bottles to go?"

  


~#~#~

  


They were undressing each other in her bedroom before Dean realized what was wrong.

He'd been thinking it was just leftover anxiety from the shock; you know, seeing your friend in a bar only for it to be an old girlfriend who now looked pretty much exactly like your friend... But the feeling wouldn't go away, and Dean wondered if he should know why. 

Then Kendra would turn and look at him, or hold out her hand a certain way, or her eyes would flash and he would think, _Castiel_. 

The third time it happened, in the latticed darkness, he understood. His hands faltered on Kendra's bra.

 _Holy mother of god. I actually wish she was Castiel_. That WTF moment grabbed him and refused to let him go. Dean left off his ministrations and crossed the room, grabbing their bottle of whiskey and chugging a good bit of it.

“Dean?” Kendra's gaze followed him, her eyes like shadowed diamonds. “What's wrong?” She slid over to him, gliding her hands over his shoulders, toying with his hair. 

He ran a hand through the gelled mass on her head, loosening strands with aimless fingers. “I... this isn't --” he broke off, frustrated, unable to put it into words. Kendra cupped his cheek. “I'm not the same as before, I get it,” she said. Dean shook his head. “No, it's not that -- but it is -- look, Kendra, you're beautiful, okay? But you look... _exactly_ like someone else...”

Her nose wrinkled. “Another girl looked like this? Did you ask her why?”

“No,” he laughed, a hushed chuckle that to him sounded a little manic, “it's a guy.”

 _Angel_.

Kendra canted her head quizzically. “A guy? Why is that a --”

Her eyes widened, and her mouth formed a little 'o'.

Dean sighed. “It's not like that, I just -- well, let me show you.” He broke from her embrace, walked into the darkened living room, and looked at the ceiling. “Castiel!” _I must be drunker than I thought_. “Get your ass down here!” Then, belatedly: “Please.”

  


~#~#~

  


Castiel groaned awake, his languid stretch becoming a series of convulsions and a high-pitched whine when the severely burned skin on his back stretched and tore. He remembered pain, but this was something new and unimaginable. It felt as though there wasn't an unburned scrap of skin left.

He forced himself to take stock. _Any pain at all means I'm human, which means a finite reserve of... whatever energy I had accessible at the time..._ Even his thoughts came in pained gasps. Thankfully, he'd been mid-battle, so he'd gathered quite a bit of grace into his vessel before the branding. 

His vessel. _Jimmy!_ Castiel closed his eyes, delved deep within, to find that place where Jimmy Novak's spirit slept. 

There was nothing. Jimmy was gone. For the first time, Castiel was alone in a human body. Fire ripped across his skin, but it was his skin now. He felt a whisper of relief. _At least... at least he doesn't have to be around for this_ , Castiel thought wearily. He didn't even know if Jimmy'd felt the branding, at what point he'd slipped away. The angel held out despondent hope that the devout man hadn't felt a thing.

Castiel inhaled, and his burns constricted, the air rushing back out of his scorched human lungs with a hiss. Holding himself completely still, nostrils flaring with tiny, pained breaths, the angel assessed his surroundings. 

No Sam. The fire was practically dead embers, and the air was cold. His clothes were basically shreds and ash.

Castiel tested his strength. There was enough available grace to heal and then some, so he got to it, mending the ruptured skin as best he could. He knew the brands would remain -- and there were more of them this time, that couldn't be a good thing -- but at least he'd be able to move without suffering. He thought about trying to drag a blade through them all and shuddered. No, better not – for now.

He made standing up his next mission, and slowly achieved it. It was more than difficult to keep his new skin from pulling, and he'd never admit to most of the noises he made, but after interminable minutes he was on his feet and staggering toward the door.

Upon pulling it open a gust of icy Northern wind whipped it out of his grasp, banging the solid wood against the wall and forcing tears from Castiel's eyes. _I suppose I'm not walking away_ , he thought. He also decided there was no way he could get the door closed, being so drained. 

Castiel felt his energy waning. _How will I get out of here?_ he thought. _I'm miles from any civilization_. He regarded the door. Driven snow was piling over the threshold.

Suddenly, a voice he knew, a golden rasp within his waning grace. _Castiel!_

Dean.

The hunter was far away, across the country. He was also rather drunk. Castiel felt a wry smile on his lips as he tried to divine Dean's exact location. _I'll only be able to survive one flight --_

_\-- I'll have to make it count._

He took a deep breath, felt the oxygen energize his human cells, and threw himself with all he had in Dean's direction.

  


~#~#~

  


Several tense moments, no sound of wing-beats. Kendra's posture indicated her thoughts regarding his current mental status. Finally, she put a hesitant hand on his shoulder. “Dean...” she began softly.

“No, this just means something's wrong. I have to concentrate on him --” and his voice broke off as he heard, as though from a long way off, the sound of something coming in fast.

“Get out of the way!” He swept Kendra into the corner of the room, just as midair cracked open and Castiel tumbled across the carpet.

His whole body was smoking and for the longest moment he didn't move. Dean just stood there in the dark, gripping Kendra to him, staring at the huddled mass of angel on the floor. “Cas...” escaped his lips before he knew he was breathing again, and the angel lifted his head.

Blue eyes struck him through the gloom and he heard Kendra gasp. Then Castiel unfolded himself, standing, and she whistled low.

The angel was mostly naked, save for seared shirt and pant cuffs flopping around his limbs. His entire body was streaked with soot, his hair looked like he'd rolled around in static, but his eyes... his eyes were like sky-bound gems in the shadows, full of so many things racing just behind them, and Dean was drunk enough to find it so striking that he started to tear up.

“Dean,” Castiel began, that low voice sliding through Dean's ears and down his skin. Dean stepped forward to touch his arm, to make sure he was real. When the vision didn't waver the hunter broke into an enormous grin and tackled him. “You son of a bitch!” he roared. “I thought you were dead.”

“No, I wasn't --” Castiel choked, trying to pry Dean off and failing miserably, “-- but I can die now, so please --!”

Dean stopped mid-roll. “Wait, what?” Then he ran his hand down Castiel's back and his eyes widened almost comically. “What the fuck --” He shoved Castiel over, and there they were. Hideous, scrolling symbols, newly scarred and burned so deep into the skin that Dean was sure in places they touched bone. 

Castiel lay, his face smashed into deep pile carpet, feeling Dean's hesitant finger tips on the healed lesions. Delicate, tickling sensations sent interesting signals through his human body. He was examining those when he heard Dean's sharp intake of breath, the probing finger having dipped into the deepest brand and touched one of Castiel's ribs. “Not again... god, Cas,” the hunter breathed, still running a finger over the burns. It still tickled, a little, but it also did something between his hips that felt like it had when he'd turned on the Impala for the first time. Power, and something else. _Is this... lust?_

He was distracted from those by the sound of the girl creeping closer, curiosity overwhelming her fear. “Is he okay?” she whispered.

“I am fine,” Castiel said, muffled by the carpet. Dean snorted and rolled him back over. “You're one resilient angel, Cas.” Unspoken was _I can't think of you any other way_. It was beyond Dean, at that point, to consider Castiel as a mere man, even if it was technically the truth -- and as he looked down at the soot-covered body, he wondered if it even mattered.

Seeing the look in those green eyes, Castiel smiled, allowing Dean to haul him to his feet. It felt strangely good to be the weaker one, to receive help, although it occurred to him that he must have been thrust far, far into his humanity for him to consider weakness a good thing.

“So... angel, huh?” she said from the shadows. Castiel couldn't see her properly, and that was bothersome. “Are there any lights here?” he asked. She gave a short laugh. “Yes, there are.” And she moved, flipping a switch on the wall.

Castiel blinked in the sudden light, then focused on her. And blinked again. Looked at Dean, who was steadily flushing crimson, then back to the girl that looked _just like his vessel_.

Then back to Dean. “Please explain this to me.”

“Yeah, I think I'd like to hear whatever you come up with,” Kendra said. She was pulling Dean's shirt over her head, but the hunter barely spared that a glance. He hadn't even made a quip yet. He was staring in to Castiel's eyes like he might have found the entrance to another world. Castiel was confused -- and mesmerized.

Then, like the turning of a page, Dean was fine. Grinning, confident, bit of a swagger. He grabbed a bottle from a nearby shelf and took a swig. “Here's what's going on. You,” he pointed to Castiel, “are an angel of the L -- well, _were_ , until my _crap brother_ \--!” Dean broke off with a snarl, but then he clenched a fist and drank some more and then he was smiling again. “And you,” he waved a hand at Kendra, “are an incredibly creative, gorgeous girl who just so happened to spin the roulette wheel and your new look is actually --” he gestured with the bottle “-- him.”

Kendra and Castiel regarded one another. Castiel could see her taking in his ragged appearance, perhaps wondering how an angel flew so low. He felt a very human urge to cover his nakedness, but shook it off. He had nothing to be ashamed of... his mind flashed back to an apple and a snake, and he wondered if this new feeling sitting deep in the pit of his stomach was simply that very human accoutrement, original sin.

"Do you need some clothes?" the girl asked. Her lips twitched but it wasn't really a smile. Castiel nodded. "I suppose I do."

"I don't know what I'll have that'll fit you..." She wandered back into the bedroom, muttering about phases, and Castiel was left standing with Dean, who was pointedly _not_ looking at him. 

But then something dark came over the hunter's face. He took another drink, then he thrust the bottle at Castiel. "Drink this," Dean said roughly, "then we'll go and get some more. Forget about this shit for awhile."

The angel eyed the booze like it could bite him, but after a beat accepted it and downed two great swallows -- then promptly set about coughing like his lungs were on fire. Dean chuckled, rescued the bottle and held him up as the fit subsided. He watched Castiel's eyes as the angel stared at the carpet, as they glazed and dilated from the alcohol suffusing his system. _He's human now_ , Dean thought sadly. _It'll hit him harder than last time_. And as much as he was looking forward to observing the results, Dean felt a bundle of icy steel settle in his gut when he thought about how it happened.

Gradually, though, he became acutely aware of the slender frame in his arms. Castiel had never seemed to radiate this much warmth before – or any temperature, for that matter. He had a heartbeat, too, and heated breath puffed across Dean's skin. Even though those horrible brands were pressed up against him... his body reacted to the presence of another body – the _naked angel in his arms_ – and his cock twitched in interest even as he belatedly realized he should probably be pulling away.

Then Castiel turned in Dean's arms to look at him, a slide of skin on skin that chased through nerves, and smiled lazily. "I do feel better," he said, only slurring a tiny bit.

Dean laughed, delighted, and took another drink himself. He released Castiel, who stood without swaying, who turned and reached out for the bottle.

"Well, here's what I could find," Kendra said as she bustled back in, dumping an armload of clothes on the sofa. Two pairs of eyes tracked her movements. "And I figured we might be needing this," she added, holding up a handle of Captain Morgan.

Castiel only made it to halfway dressed. The clothes were mismatched, based on an approximation of his size, and while they found a shirt that fit him, all the jeans were too tight. Even Kendra's lazy pants stretched tight across his ass, which she took multiple opportunities to smack. He left those on, enthralled by the softness of the material, but the shirt rubbed his brands uncomfortably so he lounged without it, every so often surreptitiously comparing his own bare chest to Dean's. 

The hunter's golden-tan skin, firm pectorals and abs, and the stark darkness of his tattoo all flowed together into something fascinating. Castiel couldn't help but feel like his own pale expanse, slender and lithe-muscled, was somehow lacking – but there was alcohol, and camaraderie, so very soon he forgot to care.

And every few minutes someone raised the cry of "Shots!".

They were all three different kinds of drunks. Dean for the most part had always been a smoldering anger kind of drunk, but he usually buried that in lascivious wit and one-off sexual encounters. Kendra was a giggly drunk, but not in an obnoxious way -- the last time Dean was here it was contagious, and they laughed for two hours straight about nothing at all. It felt amazing. Never in his life had Dean had a reason to laugh nearly that freely, or that long.

Castiel, it turned out, was a "professor" drunk. He was currently regaling a rapt Kendra on the variegated minute differences found in human eye color. The shade of her contacts fascinated him, especially after they took a photo together and he saw just how identical he and she were. He was waxing eloquent on on human mutation and micro-evolution when Dean decided they needed chips. "In the kitchen, if I have any," Kendra said muzzily.

  


~#~#~

  


Castiel watched Dean go. Kendra watched him watching. 

"You really like him," she said eventually.

Castiel turned wide blue eyes to her. "I... I do not know what this is. I've never –"

She canted her head to the side, bird-like, an unconscious mimic of the angel before her. “No friendly touching in Heaven?”

“No... not that it is considered a sin, but without a vessel an angel is sexless.” Castiel marveled at the spider-silk tremors that ran through his skin when her fingertips ghosted across his arm. Tiny hairs stood on end, and he tried to find words to express his awe and confusion. He felt stunted, voiceless, empty without his grace and on top of it all, rather drunk.

So he said, “And Dean prefers women.”

Kendra leaned in close, smelling of citrus and rum. "I think I know to solve this." Then she was perched on his lap, straddling him, and at the new sensation Castiel's lips parted.

"Follow my lead," she purred, and kissed him hard.

  


~#~#~

  


Dean came back to find Kendra on top of Castiel. It seemed the angel was an eager student when it came to human sexuality. 

Dean could only stare, the bag of pretzels in his hand forgotten. Kendra had taken her shirt back off in the minute or two he'd been gone, and pale skin on pale skin was a sliding, shifting kaleidoscope that sent warmth rushing straight to his cock. Two shaggy, black-haired heads explored flushed lips; Kendra ground her hips down and Castiel moaned into her mouth, and the sound was like a jolt of electricity through Dean's system.

Castiel's hands wound shakily through the girl's hair and Dean flushed with jealousy, something his drunken mind couldn't quite analyze. All he really knew was he suddenly wanted it to be him dragging those sounds out of the angel. Castiel was, after all, _his_ angel. And his angel, as ancient and powerful as he always has been, was a millennia-old virgin.

Dean might not have chosen this tableau for Castiel's sexual education – or even considered himself a viable participant – but neither did he have anything against Kendra. No matter what look she had on, she was a spark of a girl, and vivaciously sexy. So Dean didn't interrupt them.

He just joined in.

He waited until an opportune moment -- the angel discovering what a tongue kiss was like -- and then lifted them up and forward, sliding in behind Castiel and tracing the grooves of those sickening brands. As terrible as they were, Dean knew they had to be sensitive from their hastened healing, and sure enough Castiel arched from his touch, bucking his hips into Kendra's, uttering another wanton moan. It was delicious. Dean shivered, and before he knew what he was doing he attached his lips to Castiel's neck and suckled deep.

The angel let out a keening whine and Dean's cock twitched in reply, rigid against the small of Castiel's back. One of Kendra's hands found the back of Dean's neck and led him forward over Castiel's shoulder to kiss her. She tasted of rum, and something faintly spicy that could only be _forcibly fallen angel_. Dean mapped her mouth with his tongue, wanting every bit of that taste, vaguely wondering what it would be like at the source. Between them Castiel shifted sideways a bit, then his lips and tongue found Dean's neck, licking and sucking a line up to the tender spot behind Dean's ear. 

When the angel's questing tongue found his spot Dean flinched, moaning into Kendra's mouth. His hands followed their own agenda, reaching blindly around, one of them finding a pert breast, the other a burgeoning erection. 

Kendra hummed appreciatively, and Castiel gasped.

Dean somehow managed to find a rhythm between massaging Kendra's nipples and stroking Castiel's cock, grinning as they both stiffened. It didn't occur to him to freak out about touching another man's dick – it was _Castiel_ , for god's sake, and he deserved to feel good. Dean broke the kiss with Kendra and switched hands, dragging his nails over her collarbone just hard enough to raise redness, his other hand toying with the head of the angel's erection. Dean let his tongue lave over Castiel's neck, tasting sweat and ash. Kendra bent her head to Castiel's and they kissed fiercely, drawing whimpers from the both of them. It was a messy kiss, teeth clacking, tongues dancing in midair, one of them sucking the other's bottom lip, the other exhaling a crescendo. 

Castiel had never, ever felt this way before.

Whatever Dean was doing to his... _penis_ , was amazing. Friction, the pressure -- he never wanted it to end. The girl and her soft skin pressing him up against Dean's muscled chest was like being sandwiched between a cloud and a lightning strike. Kissing felt great, whatever Dean was doing to his neck was flat-out gorgeous, and as the hunter's strong, sure hand worked down below Castiel felt something building in the pit of his stomach. He heard himself as though through liquid, stuttering his confusion to his partners – who immediately broke their kiss, and stopped touching him. Castiel panted, confused. “What -- what's wrong?”

He could hear Dean's grin in the voice that he could feel radiating through his back. “We just don't want you to come on her couch, Cas. Come on.”

Dean stood behind him, helped him stand. Something hard was pressing in to his back and he realized that it was probably the same thing that was happening to him, happening to Dean. “Come on, angel,” the hunter was saying, “come to the place of magic and mystery.”

Dean waggled his eyebrows at Kendra, who swiped at him, taking another draw from the bottle. She swaggered when she was drunk, he noticed, wishing he had a free hand to smack her ass. Castiel was drunker than both of them, newly human and weak, and he stumbled even with Dean holding him up. The brands on his back collected darkness, small serpentine wells begging to be regarded. Perversely, Dean decided the best course of action was to play with them, sliding his thumbs across the raised edges. A series of shivers ran through the angel's body, and he mumbled something that wasn't English. Dean smiled, and steered. 

When they reached the bedroom Castiel flopped blissfully on his back on the feather mattress. Half of his face, of his pale body, was in shadow. 

He was absolutely stunning.

Dean couldn't stop himself, couldn't help sliding up on top of the angel, their bare chests gathering friction as he made his way to Castiel's mouth and captured it. He saw beauty, he sought to claim it. Something clicked in his mind, that drunk as he was he knew he'd never remember -- he was the requisite hunter, bringing death to evil and seizing the desirable as his own.

He vaguely heard Kendra make a noise, felt her lips at the juncture of neck and shoulder. She felt like a gusting breeze. Castiel was a tornado.

The angel bucked his hips into Dean's, tossing his head around on the bed, exquisite noises pouring from his throat. He was lost in the sensation, in the hips rolling across his, the lips claiming his, the smell and taste and feel of Dean Winchester.

Then those lips were pulling away and he whined his disapproval, as he felt Dean roll to one side of him and a warm, soft body frame his other side. Dean and Kendra locked lips, braced above him, and the sight of them so engaged sent another rush to Castiel's crotch and led him to desperation, to find someplace to put his hands.

His right hand found Dean's cock, pressing hard against his jeans, and began to fumble with the unfamiliar zipper. His left hand found Kendra's hip, danced its way down and plunged into something warm, and wet.

Castiel heard her gasp against Dean's lips, so he moved his fingers, working up inside her, matching his movements to her sounds. His thumb caught a button of flesh down there and she full-out squealed, grinding on to his hand and leaving Dean's lips to latch on to Castiel's collarbone. Meanwhile Dean was gasping, making obscene little grunts and bucking into his other hand. “Cas... _fuck_ , Cas, you --” Then Dean's mouth found Castiel's neck, teeth bit into tender flesh, Dean's hand found his dick and Castiel was seeing stars.

They all three matched rhythms deliciously, hips and hands and lips sending them on a joyride, their voices mingled in groans and panted breaths. Even when he recaptured Castiel's mouth, Dean couldn't tear his eyes away from the angel's face – Castiel was beside himself with pleasure, riding Dean's hand like a pro, wrist-deep in Kendra and wrenching noises out of her they could probably hear three counties over. The angel's face was a shifting portrait, and just seeing all of that, knowing he was the cause, sent pulses of heat to the tip of Dean's cock. Precome smeared Castiel's hand, lubricating his strokes, then his thumb slipped over the head and Dean moaned like a porn star.

Ecstasy built within their bodies until they were screaming, all movement one fluid surge toward release.

Castiel was, understandably, the first to climax.

He didn't know what was happening. The incredible feeling of electric heat dancing through his body, collecting at the ends of his nerves was growing stronger by the second, spiraling into his cock, hard as bone in Dean's hand. He felt light, he was losing control – one more stiff jerk, Dean did something with his wrist and Castiel screamed his release, hot come spurting over Dean's hand and his own chest.

The hunter chuckled, low in his throat, fucking wetly in to the angel's grip. Even boneless as Castiel was, shivering from the rush, he had enough presence of mind to tighten his grasp and twist like he'd felt Dean do in the end, thumbing the head of the hunter's cock even as his other hand spun inside Kendra and on that little mound of flesh.

She and Dean came simultaneously, his shout and her squeal each warring for loudest.

Dean felt himself coming and just knowing that it was _Castiel's hand_ doing the honors was enough to make him actually shout out his orgasm as it ripped through his body. His hips jerked into Castiel's, pumping his load all over the angel's hand and thigh.

That blissful hand removed itself, and Dean raised lidded eyes to watch, breathless, as Castiel tasted the spunk on his fingers. Did he just hear – “Mmm...” A shudder of _just-this-side-of-too-much_ slid through him and he dropped his gaze, resting his cheek on the angel's shoulder and breathing in the scent of freshly-sexed _Cas_.

He heard Kendra sighing, and snuggled in, not caring about the mess. _We can clean up tomorrow_ , he thought, a ridiculous grin spreading on his face. Sticky fingers slowly entwined across Castiel's chest, none of them knowing whose hands they were holding.

Castiel felt his hunter smile, nestled against his shoulder, and the angel dozed off, content.

Dean tasted like the sky after snow, and new beginnings.


	6. Chapter 6

"You guys are incredibly weird," Kendra said with a smile, "but I adore you both." She stood on the sidewalk in Dean's shirt and some sweats, the morning light catching against her eyes and tinting them violet.

Dean kissed her forehead. "See ya around, babe." He was shirtless, uncaring, his boots barely tied.

Castiel, dressed in one of Kendra's shirts and a pair of Dean's jeans they'd found in the trunk, waved from the passenger seat as they drove away.

"She was nice," he remarked at some point, not quite watching the flow of scenery through the open window. Being in the Impala again was exciting. She always made him feel like he was flying, just barely skimming the ground.

Dean grunted absently. His mind was still firmly fixed on the previous night, on the lingering, blurry memories of the way Castiel writhed beneath him, the feel of the angel's mouth on his neck, hand on his cock.

He barely remembered Kendra's part in it at all, and it actually bothered him a bit that it didn't bother him as much as he thought it should.

When they reached the motel Dean went in to grab his duffel, but he was gone a long time. Castiel thought he could mark the passage of time now, being human -- it was like a slip-sliding sensation of not-quite-air on his skin. He was fairly sure the increment of minutes required to retrieve one bag had passed several times over by the time he decided to investigate.

He found Dean sitting slumped on the far bed -- he'd gotten a double out of habit, Castiel noticed fondly. He didn't move when the angel came in.

Castiel sat beside him, and when the bed dipped Dean startled, looking over with wide eyes. Dark circles that Castiel hadn't noticed yet that morning accentuated brilliant green like deep settings for two gems, and despite a wave of worry at the expression on Dean's face, Castiel felt a little twinge of awe at just how beautiful the hunter truly was.

"I can't see your soul anymore," he said softly, "but your face is just as --"

"Cas," Dean interrupted, then he sighed, dragging a hand over his eyes. "About last night."

Castiel allowed the goofy grin he felt welling inside him to plaster itself across his face. "Last night was amazing," he said.

Dean's echoing smile held sadness, and Castiel felt his own slide away. Something was wrong -- _I did something wrong_.

The angel's face fell and Dean hated himself just a little bit more. He never wanted to see an expression like that on Castiel, especially not to be the one who caused it. But he forced himself to say it. "Cas, last night was a mistake."

 _A mistake?_ Castiel searched those sorrowful eyes. He couldn't read the soul behind them anymore. He had only the emotion-painted surface to analyze. _No wonder humans get so frustrated with one another._

Aloud, he said, "How could something that glorious be a mistake?"

Dean huffed, a cross between a laugh and a newborn sob. "Because, Cas, you're human now, and everything's new to you, and I can't expect you to --" he gesticulated wildly. Castiel saw panic surface in his eyes and grabbed one of his hands. "If I liked it, does any of that matter?"

"Well, no, but -- then there's -- you're a _guy_ , Cas! And I --" 

Castiel understood in a flash of clarity exactly what was bothering Dean. "My vessel is male," he affirmed, "but I am not."

"Right now?" Haunted eyes met his. "You are." Dean dropped his hand. "Right now, you are flesh and blood and bone. There is nothing angel in there. You are a man, Cas, and I just don't do guys."

Well, there. Dean let his shoulders slump. He'd ruined another good thing in his rough way, all because he couldn't not freak out about it after all. And he saw Castiel's demeanor change, saw him withdraw and huddle in on himself. _I am a low-down, dirty thug_ , Dean thought morosely. _I ruin everything I tou--_

Castiel surged over him, knocked him flat, and kissed him, _hard_.

Dean struggled for a bit, but even fully human the angel was strong, and he kept Dean's hips twisted beneath his weight. And then Castiel flicked his tongue against Dean's unresponsive lips, which parted without permission, and -- _holy shit, did he learn that from us?_

Castiel kissed with everything he had, knowing that at any moment Dean could overthrow his advances, storm off and leave him. He had to take this chance, to show _his_ hunter the way he'd been feeling for so long, the feelings that he could only now define. There was nothing else he could do – Dean said it, and he was right: _there is nothing angel in there_. A low pang resounded through Castiel's chest at the echo of those words and he kissed Dean harder, driving it all away.

There was a point where neither of them were breathing and the singularity of that moment was, in and of itself, divine.

Castiel rode that infinite moment until his head felt light and then he broke the connection, long enough to gasp: "You have always been mine, Dean Winchester." His voice was wrecked, much rougher than usual, and at the sound those exquisite green eyes dilated, eyelashes dipping.

Dean threw caution and discomfort to the winds, pulled Castiel back to him and clashed their lips together with enough force to bruise. The angel's muffled noise struck his nerves and he pawed the back of Castiel's head, endeavoring to roll his hips to the side and get fully on the bed. Because damn it all if he wasn't all systems go, and he no longer cared about his earlier trepidations. This was Cas, vibrant and no less himself as a human. More him _self_ , Dean realized as he drew back to look into those incredible blue eyes. Castiel was flushed, breathing heavily. _He's an individual now. The only one like him there will ever be._

_Something new._

Castiel stared down at Dean, who had an odd expression on his face. "Dean," he ventured, leaning down, "are you --"

As he leaned his hips rolled over Dean's, and the sweet friction was mirrored in identical 'o' expressions as hunter and angel stared at one another.

"What are we doing here, Cas?" Dean's voice was broken glass.

"I -- I don't know," the angel said, suddenly confused. "I should probably --" He made to swing off of Dean, but strong hands grabbed his pelvis and held him down as Dean rolled his own hips upward, a lazy arc into a snap that sent waves of heat through Castiel's core. 

"I don't want to regret this," Dean said gruffly, his voice tickling Castiel's spine, "but I don't think I will."

Castiel, tingling all over, drank in those hooded green eyes. Dean's face was pale, his freckles standing out like constellations, his parted lips kiss-bruised. They looked as soft as Castiel knew they felt. He wanted -- he just had to taste them again.

When he swooped down to capture Dean's lips, the hunter _mewled_ – a sound he never would have guessed that Dean would make – into his mouth, bucking his hips up and sliding heat against heat. Castiel felt increasingly confined in his borrowed jeans, but didn't want to stop kissing Dean in order to sit up and undo them. Luckily, Dean made that decision for him, rolling them both over and dumping Castiel on his back as he hastily tackled his zipper. “Wanna feel you, Cas,” he breathed, completely lost. Castiel's answering shudder sent sparks straight to his cock.

Without knowing he'd even moved Dean had the angel's length in his hand, already hard, glistening precome dragging from the tip. Dean ran his thumb over the slit, smearing the opalescent mess, and reveled in Castiel's ragged gasp. “Gonna make you feel so good, Cas... wanna feel you coming, fuck, you're fucking _gorgeous_ , Cas...” Where was all this dirty talk coming from? He wasn't even drunk.

That's just how the angel affected him. 

Which is why he suddenly felt himself sliding down, lowering his mouth over Castiel's fat, flushed cock and slowly taking him in, loving the angel's torn whisper of his name. Precome slid salty on his tongue and he licked it up, flicked his tongue through the slit and then down the underside, lapping at the vein before simply deciding to see how far down he could go.

Castiel was drowning in that wet heat, writhing, trapped beneath Dean's body, the hunter's skin on his the perfect prison. Dean's flawless mouth closed around his cock and Castiel's eyes rolled back, his mouth gaping open, a litany of choked Enochian syllables falling from his lips. 

Dean hollowed his cheeks, sucking for all he was worth, thinking back to his Top Ten Best Blowjobs of All Time and trying to remember what it had felt like those girls were doing. He didn't dwell on the unsettling fact that he was giving a blowjob; he just wanted to please Castiel. To hear those noises wrenched from him again, and again. Whatever language his angel was currently muttering in with that cracking, honeyed-gravel voice... it fit perfectly. The rumble of Castiel's words caressed him through the mattress.

“Dean...” the angel keened roughly, thrusting into his hunter's mouth. He could feel Dean grinning around him, then that glorious sun-drenched cavern was withdrawn. Castiel wriggled his displeasure.

“Patience, Cas,” Dean chuckled, doing something that made the bed shake. As the angel lifted his head to stare with bleary eyes, Dean dropped his jeans on the floor. He met Castiel's gaze and flushed, kneeling there naked, golden skin forming adorable wrinkles over his stomach. His air of innocence was overwhelming. Castiel struggled to sit upright, to shuck off his own jeans, but his hands weren't working. Dean saw, smiled, and helped. 

As soon as his legs were free Castiel dragged the hunter over-top of him with a surge of inhuman strength, their bodies sliding together in one long rush of friction. Dean's gasp became a moan as Castiel wrapped his legs around Dean's, setting a brutal pace with his hips, catching Dean behind his neck with a forceful hand and pulling him down into a kiss that threatened to meld their very atoms. It was open-mouthed, sloppy, and _erotic_ \-- both tongues twisting, tasting, claiming each others' mouths.

One of Dean's hands snaked between them, and before Castiel knew what was happening he felt that hand grab both of their cocks together and the pressure was glorious, it was too much, pleasure like lava flooded his body and oh, he was going to --

“Ah! Ah!” He couldn't form words, in any language. He could barely breathe. Castiel shuddered his orgasm all over Dean's hand and dick, the mess getting tangled in where the friction grabbed it and heated it further and all Dean could hear was his angel's ragged breathing and the squelch of slick in his hand. He was sliding in and against incredible heat, and it was Castiel lying beneath him, staring at him in absolute wonder with those unearthly blue eyes --

\-- and Dean tensed, shouting as he came, trying to hold Castiel's gaze. As he wrung himself out onto his angel's chest, everything dissolved into white, and he fell to the side with a sigh, gathering Castiel against him with weak and trembling arms. 

“Awesome,” he murmured, reveling in the sweat-soaked heat of the body he embraced. Wherever that came from, he was mostly okay with it – though his heart sped in his chest, and a hint of the old anxiety came creeping back in: _what the fuck, I just basically masturbated Castiel, I gave a blowjob to a friggin' angel of the Lord..._ Castiel's lips on his broke that train of thought nicely in half, and sank each half in a different ocean. Though he'd never admit it later, Dean melted into the kiss, slotting his body against the angel's til it felt like they were two halves of one whole. 

This? This was weird, but this was also okay.

~#~#~

The sun set over Yosemite Valley with lazy grandeur, rays like fire lighting the mountainsides and chasing down into shadows below. Sam hung on the sheer rocky face of El Capitan, long brown arms slung out carelessly, gracing the stone like a perversion of the crucifix. He considered the sunset through narrowed eyes. Sam was thinking, always thinking, his trains of thought spanning eons and millions of miles in the span of a moment. 

At the moment, he considered his brother.

Dean was a stalwart human being, to be sure. He was also limited. Oh, he made an EMF meter out of his busted-up Walkman, he could rebuild the Impala from scrap, and he could almost, almost sing – but he was singular when faced with many things. Of course, Sam reasoned, he was sure his brother could be enlightened, somehow. After a fashion. With time.

His ankle itched. He lifted his other foot to scratch it.

Dean was remarkably determined. In some areas, he was remarkably determined to remain obtuse, to _not understand_. He wanted his opinions to endure, even in the face of new information and, at times, damning evidence. Sam knew this about his brother, and yet he couldn't keep it from frustrating him. This time, he couldn't just let it go. Sam studied that thought, for a moment. It seemed, he noted with some fascination, that he was unable to move past Dean's stubbornness. He wanted his brother's – well, if not approval, at least his understanding.

The sun chased wisps of clouds below the treeline, and Sam felt the first chill of evening like a passing thought. With the sudden cold came a shiver across his taut shoulders, and on the tail of the shiver came thoughts of Castiel.

Sam felt himself frown, and agreed with his face.

He hadn't killed the angel on purpose. For a purpose. He knew Castiel would seek out Dean as soon as he regained consciousness, and while Sam was always aware of Dean's location... he wanted to see what would happen. What they'd do, where they'd go. How Castiel would handle his new-found humanity, the endless slew of choices, emotions. The physical sensations alone might overwhelm him. Some humans who'd been human their whole lives couldn't handle it – how would a fallen angel cope? Sam had made a series of assumptions, most of which had subsequently proven wildly inaccurate.

Sam still wasn't sure how to translate what he'd seen, for a multitude of reasons.

Wind whipped through his clothes and stung his skin, the sun a forgotten pleasure now settled beneath the horizon. It was time to return to Cim. The demon had become almost petulant of late, insisting that they forge ahead and endeavor to complete the master project. Sam, with a smirk, realized he was just about ready to silence those thin lips.

With a cocky salute to the deepening sky, Sam let go of the cliff face and dove forward. The mountain wind whipped tears from his eyes as he fell, a lone comet plunging earthward toward the trees. 

His heart skipped a beat and he was above the Atlantic ocean instead, flipping to hit the water feet first, toes pointed, barely a splash to mark his entry. He shot down fathoms before he slowed, and for an uncounted minute hung in the depths, seeing nothing, mind whirling with purpose.

When he appeared before his mentor, Sam was dry, and his smile was like a curse.

~#~#~

The Impala streaked across a mid-western desert highway, chrome catching the baleful sunlight, a cloud of dust like a lacy train behind her. She was cruising at 90 mph, the sound of her engine a joyful roar.

Dean lounged indolent in the passenger seat, staring at his partner with a lazy, lust-filled grin playing on his lips. 

Castiel was behind the wheel.

His blood sang with the thrill of the drive. It was everything he remembered, and better, because Dean was sitting beside him perfectly healthy. And they were together.

A shiver of remembered pleasure made his shoulders shake, and he heard Dean's stifled laugh. All of a sudden a hand tiptoed over his leg, and he nearly leapt out of his skin, jerking the wheel and swerving the car all over the road. Dean's hand was on the bulge of his cock, trapped in those jeans, and when the hunter ground the heel of his hand down the flash of lust was so powerful Castiel's eyes crossed. Simultaneously the horn bleated, all the lights flashed, and the radio kicked on.

_“I swear to you, I'll be there for you, this is not a drive-by...”_

It was the same song from the bar. Kendra-as-Castiel swam across Dean's mind, and he smiled fondly at his angel, not letting up with his hand. Castiel was panting lightly, and even though he had to focus on driving and face forward, Dean could see the blue disappearing from those eyes as the pupils blew wide. “Dean...” His name dripped from the angel's lips in that broken whisper that always seemed to shoot straight to Dean's cock. 

“God, Cas... you should probably pull over.” What had possessed him to say that? Dean bit his lip. His body had such a randy mind of its own, it was even speaking for him. 

“Do you... think so?” _Fuck_ , that voice. Like gritty silk all over Dean's body. “Mmph,” was all he could give in response. This was already moving faster than he'd ever thought it would, if he'd ever thought about it, which he hadn't, but the thing about it was: He didn't want to stop. Ever.

_“When you move me, everything is groovy_  
They don't like it, sue me  
Either way you do me --” 

“Yessss, fuck it, pull over,” he growled, suddenly needy. Cas feathered the brake like a pro, threw the car into park, and then he was scrambling sideways to plow his mouth into Dean's, a desperate clash of tongues and teeth as frantic hands found hair and pulled, and they both gasped into each others' mouths. Dean hadn't let up on Castiel's crotch and now, as he fought for breath and dominance in the kiss, he yanked the button and zipper apart. “Yes,” Castiel gasped into his mouth, and Dean gave an answering tug to the angel's cock that had him thrusting into his hand, gasps and little muttered curses falling into the rhythm. Castiel groaned Dean's name and the sound was decadent; Dean felt the heat of that one little word across all of his skin at once.

Dean was about to slide to his knees on the floorboard, he wanted to taste his angel again, but Castiel grabbed his shoulders and slammed their foreheads together. Two blue-rimmed, lust-blackened eyes melded into one as Castiel stared him down and said in the most wrecked voice Dean had ever heard: “I need you to fuck me.”

Shock. _How does he even – oh, fuck. Oh, shit. Ohhh, shit..._ Castiel's hand found Dean's cock, still trapped in his own jeans, and kneaded it, hard. “Dean,” said that voice, and Dean groaned, his hips rocking up of their own accord into the pressure of Castiel's hand.

Without meaning to, he imagined it – being Castiel's first. Taking him and claiming him completely. Dean pictured himself over Castiel in the back seat, the angel staring up at him with those blown eyes, utterly trusting, as Dean lined up to enter him.

He could almost feel that tight heat, how it felt to be encased in Castiel's clenching flesh, and Dean closed his eyes with a strangled growl. It turned into a high-pitched “ah!” of surprise when Castiel's lips latched on to his neck, that strong, slender hand still at work downstairs. 

_Oh, to hell with it._

“Backseat!” he grunted, and instantly Castiel was springing up and sliding back there with inhuman speed. Dean grinned as he less-than-gracefully joined him. “Your angel is showing.”

“Shut up,” Castiel breathed in a rush from his place on his back, knees splayed apart, feet on the seat. A pretty flush spread over his nose and cheekbones, his lips reddened and kissed plump, his eyes like lust-blown sapphires sending stinging shivers through Dean's nerves. He was beautiful. So human in his need, but still so much an angel -- the perfection, alien fury. 

The paradox was mostly lost on Dean, but he enjoyed looking at the result. 

“Need you,” the angel insisted, wriggling out of his jeans. He grabbed one of Dean's hands, drew two of the fingers into his mouth with an obscene slurp. That tongue was nothing angelic. Dean's jeans were growing more uncomfortable by the second, and he reared as far up on his knees as the low ceiling would allow in order to use his other hand to open his fly. The open zipper grated something awful on the underside of his dick, though, so – and don't ask him how, because never in a million years could he tell you – he extricated himself from them one-handed, casting them aside. Castiel managed to get his mouth around two more fingers, sucking them in and out, never looking away from Dean's eyes. Dean got himself in hand and began to stroke, even pressed up against the ceiling like he was. But Castiel had other plans. 

The angel pulled Dean's fingers from his mouth and led the hand around to the crack of his virgin ass, swirling one finger around the puckered ring. _How does he – why – me, I'm just –_ Dean's other hand faltered on his cock, and he was sure his misgivings were showing on his face. Castiel just looked determined. “Do it, Dean,” he said firmly, and poked Dean's finger just inside that ring of muscle. A little gasp escaped him, and that sound went straight to the base of Dean's cock and smoldered there, and Dean pushed that finger in further just to hear Castiel make more noise. The angel whined, squirming, pushing the finger even deeper into that impossibly tight heat. Dean withdrew it, slowly, then fucked it back in, loving the way Castiel writhed beneath him. He added a second finger, pausing to allow those tight muscles to stretch, then he plunged both fingers slowly to the hilt, feeling around for that little bundle of nerves he'd heard about.

He knew he'd found it when Castiel shrieked, sat bolt upright, and when Dean's fingers grazed that same spot again the angel moaned, shaking, lowering himself back down. “Fuck, Dean...” he murmured, grinding his hips down onto those fingers. Dean added a third, then, scissoring all three to stretch his angel as wide as he could. He'd never done this, nor had it done to him, but he'd talked to plenty of people who had, and he remembered enough. 

In order for Castiel to enjoy this fully, he'd have to start slow.

Dean never could have anticipated just how difficult that would be. The sight, never mind the sound, of the angel dancing around on his back while Dean finger-fucked him into oblivion, was more than enough to potentially drive him to just pick up Castiel's knees and slam his cock up to the hilt into Castiel's ass, bottoming out and then thrusting again, and again, hard as he pleased, wringing screams and sobs of ecstasy from his partner's lungs – but the angel was just a man now, no superhuman healing ability, and Dean wasn't a masochist.

Finally, he judged that the hole was stretched widely enough to accommodate his cock -- Dean wasn't the largest man on the planet, but he was no slouch, either -- and he withdrew the fingers, trying to ignore Castiel's whine at their loss. He spat on to his hand, wishing for an instant that they had some kind of lube, before slicking his erection and lining it up with the quivering entrance.

“Please,” Castiel began, but Dean was already thrusting in. The plea became a drawn-out cry, the angel being filled.

Castiel couldn't believe it. He was in the back seat of the Impala, after having driven her for hours, being fucked six ways to Sunday by Dean Fucking Winchester. If he'd ever dreamed, this would have been his ultimate fantasy. And Dean, despite never having done this with a man before, and having reservations about the whole thing, was doing something absolutely heavenly with his dick, pulling out slowly and driving back in with a snap that drove the air from Castiel's lungs. “Fuck!” he panted, falling into a nonsense litany of _“fuck, Dean, yes, ah fuck, just like that,”_ as the rhythm Dean set punctuated the pulses of desire within him.

Dean's hands slid under Castiel's knees, lifting him, creating a different angle and then he was thrusting against the angel's prostate and Castiel was just screaming. He was hoarse with need, choking on it, every brush of that little nerve bundle sending passion skyrocketing through his system. His abandoned cock flopped against his stomach and Castiel reached for it, but Dean beat him to it, jerking the angel in time with his thrusts. It was too much, it was too good, he was going to --

Dean felt Castiel jerk beneath him, around him, clenching chaotically, and he knew his angel was approaching the edge. Dean sped his pace, driving brutally down, nothing but slap of skin and staggered moans filling his ears. He grappled blindly, his hand tightened around Castiel's swollen cock and that was all she wrote, the angel arching and crying out, scalding come spurting over his chest and Dean's hand. His body clamped down around Dean, those already tight muscles slamming shut tighter in spasmodic ripples and the hunter lost it, throwing his head back with a choked-out roar as he pumped his load deep into Castiel's body. The angel's seizing muscles milked his orgasm until it was almost too much to bear, and as the sensations multiplied Dean's arms gave out, the breath leaving his lungs in one long whoosh. He sprawled over Castiel, twitching, trying to say something like “Fuck, Cas”, but not able to get past the “Fffffuhh...”

He was destroyed, utterly spent, and he felt like a hundred-watt bulb. He couldn't stop grinning. He peeked up at Castiel and saw sweat dripping down the angel's face, from his hair, saw those gorgeous eyes heavy-lidded and looking at him like he was god on earth. That was a sight he could stand to see again.

With an abortive whimper Dean forced himself to slide out of the sodden warmth, and then the angel's arms enveloped him and they lay, not entirely uncomfortably, curled around each other in the back seat.

The Impala, still running, purred around them, and all they were for long minutes was breath, and silence, and wonder.

Castiel held his hunter as tightly as he was able, though his limbs felt limp and lifeless. He had no words, in English or Enochian or any other language ever created, to describe the way he felt. This was perfection personified. It was something he had never expected to experience, and would never again be able to live without. Castiel pressed a kiss to Dean's sweaty head and smiled, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. Amazing. Dean Winchester had not yet ceased to amaze him. He wanted to lay like this, over and over again, forever.

Eventually, though, Dean got hot, and he reluctantly extracted himself from Castiel's embrace, opening the passenger door and sliding out. 

Luckily they were on what had to be the loneliest state road in the entire country, so no one could see Dean's bare ass as he struggled back into his jeans. He hissed when the rough fabric slid over his sensitive dick, but all discomfort was forgotten when he saw Castiel on all fours in the back seat, chin propped on threaded fingers, staring up at him. Somehow the angel had his own jeans back on already. He looked sex-messy and glorious.

Dean stuck his thumbs into his pockets. “Want me to drive?” he teased.

More of that inhuman speed that took his breath away as Castiel slithered, like a fucking snake, back over the front seat. The angel threw the car into gear.

“You better hurry up and get in,” Castiel grated out the window, “or I'm leaving your ass behind.”

Laughing, Dean jogged to the passenger side, and they peeled out, hitting the asphalt at around 70 mph. That and Castiel's expression made Dean snicker again, he couldn't help it. His angel was just so damn cute.

 _And I'm turning into a girl_ , he thought good-naturedly.

“How in the fuck did you do this to me?” he mused aloud, sliding a hand over to ruffle Castiel's already sex-tousled hair. In reply the angel pressed down firmly on the gas pedal, and the car fairly flew along the road, the wheels barely skimming solid ground.

He didn't speak for a long while. Dean hummed Kansas absentmindedly, staring out the window and not really seeing anything.

“You make me feel like I'm whole again,” Castiel said, suddenly and so quietly that Dean wasn't sure he'd heard him. “Everything about you sings to me, harmonizes with the music I feel when I drive this car. The both of you together are a breathtaking symphony.” His breath hitched. “Dean, I -- I had no idea --”

A finger was placed lightly upon his lips, halting any further confessions. “Hey,” Dean said gently. “I'm not quite... I don't know what this is yet, okay? Let's...” He felt silly trying to say _let's take it slow_ when he'd just fucked his angel's brains out in the back seat, but he still wasn't completely certain how he felt about the whole thing. Sex was sex, but whatever this was... this was something new.

Like Cas.

To break the tension, Dean went with a quip. “You know, you're pretty vocal.” He nipped at Castiel's earlobe with his fingertips. “Angel has a dirty mouth.”

Eyes on the road, Castiel stuck out his tongue, eliciting a full guffaw.

“Hey, if I'd known you loved it this much, we'd have done this a long time ago.”

He had to glance at Dean, then; the hunter looked at him and smiled the sweetest smile Castiel had ever seen.

The angel didn't ask which Dean meant, the sex or the drive.

~#~#~

Deep underground where unseen horrors skittered through the blackness, Sam faced his mentor, the marquis of Hell, by the light of a few tallow tapers. Both men were breathing heavily, and Cim looked paler than usual. Sam was smiling. It was a terrible thing to behold.

The demon's eyes glittered. “Do not presume to assert your strength over mine,” he rumbled, squaring his shoulders. “I made you what you are.”

But he didn't move forward, didn't press an attack. Sam met his eyes and held them, and before too long, Cim shifted his gaze to the ground. He'd felt the vice around his damned heart.

Sam smirked, and for that moment the candles guttered.

"Don't forget, Cimeries, we're in this together."

_*FIN_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you have it! Stay tuned for another installment -- or two, or more -- of the Open Road! And please, do let me know what you thought of this one. I'm pretty much an attention whore.


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